100 OneShot Book
by Prin Pardus
Summary: 100 One-shots of various themes selected by yours truly, ranging from love to hate to happiness to sorrow to loss, and everything in between. You can still join in if you want, so long as you follow the rules!
1. Themes

**AN: **

**Alright guys, welcome to my latest project: 100 One-Shot challenge! Using a word randomizer I've come up with a list of 100 themes to write about, one per chapter. Each chapter will be a story all in its own, although it might contain old characters, future characters, or new characters entirely.**

**Want to join? That's fine! Just PM me that you're joining, and you can tell me about your progress whenever you like. Just a few things:**

*** Themes MUST be done in order**

*** You can take a spin on each theme in any way you like! It's your choice how you interpret them.**

*** There's no set end date in sight, since I'm not sure how long this will take, as I've never done it before. You might want to check my entries every now and then to see if I've set any sort of date.**

*** All entries for each theme MUST be at least 1,500 words! That way no one can just take an easy path and jot down a few really short things to get ahead. **

**Now for the themes!**

**Injured**

**Sinking**

**Father**

**Exploit**

**Boredom**

**Art of Conversation**

**Take Your Best Shot**

**Creativity**

**Flash**

**Puzzling Words**

**Ill**

**Skeleton**

**Nothing**

**Servitude**

**Possibilities**

**Weightless**

**Just Say It**

**Last Words**

**Immature**

**Blazing**

**Help**

**Presence**

**Because**

**Forced**

**Reversed**

**Cast Away**

**Emotions**

**Questions**

**Wishing**

**Crackling**

**Curl Up**

**Together**

**Look Again**

**Brief**

**Space**

**Special**

**Jinx**

**Stop Fussing**

**Cozy**

**Breaking**

**Either Or**

**Tell Me a Story**

**Waiting**

**Willpower**

**Who Am I?**

**Idol**

**Unseen**

**Just Try**

**For Me?**

**Your Choice (Literally! You've made it to fifty, so write about any topic/theme you choose for this one!)**

**Useful**

**Treasure**

**Ceremony**

**Lightning**

**Protection**

**Stay With Me**

**Mint**

**Rescue**

**Dominant**

**Thief**

**Deserter **

**Stolen**

**Sarcasm**

**Darling**

**How Much is too Much?**

**Over**

**TryAgain**

**Hidden **

**Forgotten**

**The First Time**

**Aging**

**Soldiers**

**Justice**

**Tread Carefully**

**One False Step**

**Connection**

**Mess**

**It Can't Be**

**In Due Time**

**Awake**

**Delicious**

**Fallen**

**Trickery**

**Around the Bend**

**Well Traveled**

**Choices**

**Surplus**

**Rough**

**If**

**Friend**

**Found Not Lost**

**Spiral**

**Deep **

**I Could Have**

**Desirable**

**Resentment**

**Build Up **

**Inch by Inch**

**Dilemma **

**Blue Sky**

**Someone recently reported this fic because this chapter is only a AN chapter, so enjoy a few paragraphs of writing to ensure that it fits the guidelines and does not get reported again~**

He crept forward slowly, his eyes narrowed as he spotted the mouse. It looked over its shoulder at him as if it was testing him, twitching its whiskers as if to say _Come and get me._

_I'll happily oblige, _he thought, baring his fangs and springing forward. The mouse sprang nimbly out of the way, and he let out a furious hiss, trying to grab it between his paws. The mouse slipped out from between his paws like a slithering snake, and he let out a low grunt lashing out at the mouse with his claws. It sprang away once more and twitched its whiskers at him playfully, before darting away.

_No you don't! _He thought angrily and burst through the undergrowth, following the little creature as quickly as he could. The mouse weaved through the undergrowth with ease, and he followed it as quickly as he could.

The mouse disappeared into a cave that he had never seen before; he hesitated, feeling nervous, before leaping into the cave's gaping maw after the mouse. No rodent was getting away from him.

There was a sudden crashing sound, and the light was abruptly blotted out, sending him floundering into darkness; looking over his shoulder, he saw that somehow a boulder had fallen over the entrance to the cave...as if it had been pushed.

A chill ran down his spine, as he heard the sound of tiny claws scratching against stone. He dashed towards the boulder blocking the entrance to the cave, and threw himself against it; it barely budged.

_Twigpaws, twigpaws, weaker than a newborn bird, _he thought, remembering his Clanmates jeers. His ears flattened and he threw himself against the boulder again, but to no avail.

He heard it again, the tiny claws over stone, but it was louder this time, and there were more of them; a quick sniff told him that the cave was cloaked in mouse-scent. His breath caught in his throat as something ran over one paw. He lashed out blindly, but the mice only laughed at him with quiet squeaks.

Beginning to panic as the clacking of claws grew louder, he lashed out, striking a furry body and sending it flying against the back of the cave; in return, he felt sharp mouth teeth latch onto his tail.

He let out a terrified yowl and raced forward, blundering blindly in the darkness, until agony shot through his body. He yowled with pain and collapsed, ears ringing from the contact with the stone. He felt the little paws racing over his back, heard their tiny squeaks, and realized that the mice were tired of being hunted.

They had taken things into their own paws.

**AN: That was terrible, but rules are rules~**


	2. 1 Injured

**1. Injured**

She could smell them just ahead, her mentor Snakefang and several other warriors. It was her first day as an apprentice, and she was still a bit slow at recognizing scents, but Snakefang said she would get better at it.

She hoped he was right. The other apprentices were all so much older and more skilled than she was; as the youngest, she was the tail of many jokes and the others loved pushing her around, Talonpaw especially. The big black tom was always so smug and stupid. She hated him. She clenched her jaw firmly.

Ahead of her, she heard voices, loud angry ones. It was just a border patrol though, wasn't it? Snakefang had said it was just a border patrol, and he wouldn't lie. Sure, tensions between her Clan and the neighboring one were high, but it couldn't be that bad, right?

Silently she crept forward, aware of how well her dark pelt blended into the foliage. For good measure, she had taken care to roll in the marshy mud that marked her Clan's territory; they were named MarshClan for a reason, after all.

Her eyes widened as she caught the smell of unfamiliar warriors, and realized many of the voices were not of her Clan.

"Get off our territory!" she heard Snakefang snarl.

"Make us," a voice sneered, and she wrinkled her nose, recognizing the salty smell of ShellClan. ShellClan and MarshClan had never been friendly, but since when had they been enemies?

"MarshClan's gone soft, everyone knows it," another voice hissed. "Shadestar's a fool!"

"He's no fool!" someone spat, and she recognized the voice of Sleekpelt, a gentle she-cat. She had recently kitted, but Sleekpelt was no cat to just sit around; her kits were all healthy and strong, and Sleekpelt had agreed to go on the patrol. MarshClan was almost running out of warriors, with the annual forest-sickness taking its toll on them.

"How could any cat think Brownfur would make a good deputy?" one of the ShellClan's warriors laughed. Anger flared inside of her. She knew Brownfur, and although the chocolate she-cat wasn't very special, she was usually kind to the young apprentice.

"Shut up!" she yowled, springing out of her hiding face. Her mentor's face didn't lit up with happiness at seeing her as she had guessed, but fear.

"Fernpaw! Get out of here!" he ordered. She was surprised to see his claws were unsheathed, as were the other warriors'.

"Yeah, run and hide," one of the enemy warrior's laughed, her face contorted in a sneer. Fernpaw felt herself trembling, but her jaw clenched.

"I'm not running!" she said bravely.

"Fool!" Snakefang spat, but his word was cut off as one of the warrior's sprang at him, landing on his back and clawing him fiercely. Fernpaw's jaws opened in a gasp as both sides sprang at each other, and suddenly the territorial dispute became a full-fledged battle.

Tremendous force hit her from behind, knocking her to the ground. She spat out a mouthful of mud before struggling to her paws, trembling with fear. A scarred black warrior faced her, grinning.

"You've still got your kit-fluff! What are you doing out here?" he rasped. Fernpaw opened her mouth to reply, but he was on her again, knocking her on her side and ripping into her. She was powerless to stop him, and as her mouth opened in a cry for help, she found herself choking on mud. She floundered, but she was weak and tiny compared to the dark warrior. Then, she felt a searing pain as he clawed her face, and her world went black.

. . .

She came to slowly, smelling the mud beside her face as she slowly awoke. Blood, her nose was clogged by the smell of blood. She coughed, tasting mud, and opened her eyes.

But they were already open.

She froze in disbelief, and blinked quickly, but all she could see was black. Sudden throbbing pain overwhelmed her, and when she touched her face directly below her eyes, her paws came away wet with blood.

She was blind.

Fernpaw's mouth opened in a soundless scream, and she collapsed in on herself, as darkness claimed her mind once more.

. . .

"No-eyes! No-eyes!" the taunting voice buried in her mind, as she rose from sleep. Nothing but darkness greeted her.

"Get out of her, Talonpaw!" a voice spat, and Fernpaw heard the laughing tom's voice fade.

"Whiteflower?" Fernpaw croaked.

"Are you awake?" Whiteflower's soft voice washed over her ears like honey.

"What's wrong with me?" Fernpaw realized she sounded hysterical. "Why can't I see?"

Whiteflower said nothing, and Fernpaw cried again, "Why can't I see?"

"You're blind." Whiteflower's voice was whisper-soft. "One of ShellClan's cats blinded you."

"But I'll get my sight back right? Right?" Fernpaw could feel desperation rising up within her.

"I'm…I'm afraid your eyes are permanently damaged," Whiteflower said. "You'll never see again. You'll never be a warrior."

"No," Fernpaw whispered, and she thought she heard Talonpaw whisper 'No-eyes!' in her ear. "I have to be a warrior!" She flailed blindly, feeling her paws smack the ground, leaves, berries, flower petals.

"Stop!" Whiteflower exclaimed, and Fernpaw felt a paw pressing on her back. "Be still, I've had to bind your wounds. You're lucky to be alive."

"I can't see! How is that lucky?" Fernpaw wailed.

"You're lucky to be alive," Whiteflower said again. "You're the only one in that patrol to survive."

Fernpaw's eyes widened in shock. Her mentor, Snakefang, dead? Gentle Sleekpelt, leaving her kits motherless? She, Fernpaw, a tiny blinded apprentice, the only one left alive?

"ShellClan wanted you to suffer," Whiteflower said, her voice bitter. "They've gotten what they wanted; Shadestar will have no choice but to concede more of our territory. We simply don't have the warriors to defend it…."

Fernpaw clenched her paws. _I should be defending our territory! I should be training! I have to be a warrior. I can't let my Clan down!_

Fernpaw tried to stand, but pain made her legs buckle beneath her, and she collapsed.

_If I can't even train…what good am I?_

. . .

"No-eyes! Useless!" The jeering voices surrounded her. She felt someone nip her flank. She turned, trying to claw them, but when she turned back she found her mouse had been stolen.

"Yummy!" Talonpaw laughed in her ear. "But you can't hunt, so you shouldn't eat!"

"_I _caught a huge vole earlier today!" someone else boasted. "More than you'll ever get!"

"Shut up!" Fernpaw spat. "Face me and fight me!"

"I already am," Talonpaw laughed, but when Fernpaw clawed at him, she only hit air.

"Ha! Ha! No-eyes!" Their taunting laughs filled her mind, and Fernpaw collapsed again, trembling.

"Get away from her!" someone roared, and Fernpaw felt the vibrations of the apprentices fleeing through her paws.

"Ow, ow, my ear!" Talonpaw yelped.

"If I see you bothering Fernpaw again, you'll be Noears!" the warrior hissed, and Fernpaw felt Talonpaw race away as soon as he was released.

"Are you okay?" Fernpaw's rescuer asked, and Fernpaw scented the air, trying to figure out who it was. Her eyes widened as she recognized the scent of Brownfur, the deputy.

"I-I'm fine," Fernpaw stammered, and then tilted her muzzle down towards her paws as if she was unable to meet Brownfur's golden eyes. Even though she was blind, some habits were just too hard to defeat.

"Don't let them get to you," Brownfur said, and Fernpaw felt the brown warrior sit down beside her and press her chocolate pelt to Fernpaw's dark fur. "I was bullied when I was an apprentice too."

Fernpaw tilted her head towards Brownfur's voice, even though she knew her ruined eyes were an ugly sight. "Really? But you're Clan deputy!"

"Yes, but I wasn't always," Brownfur said. "No one believed in me either, except Shadestar. He was always there for me." Fernpaw felt Brownfur rest her tail on Fernpaw's. "I think I should pass that on."

"You're going to train me?" Fernpaw asked eagerly. Brownfur was silent for a moment.

"No," Brownfur said finally. "You could never become a warrior; even with heightened senses, you simply couldn't process your enemies' moves fast enough to respond. But I'm sure there's something you can do for your Clan."

"I'm useless," Fernpaw whispered.

"Don't say that," Brownfur said, and there was a note of anger in her voice. "If anyone's useless, it's Talonpaw. He's got strength and brains, but he's too lazy and heartless to ever become a real warrior."

"My heart is what got me into this," Fernpaw mumbled. "If I had just stayed like Snakefang told me…."

"You did what you thought you had to, to be loyal to your Clan," Brownfur said. "It might not have been the smartest move, but it was the bravest."

Fernpaw didn't reply, until she felt something touch her paws.

"Your mouse," Brownfur said. "Talonpaw dropped it when he ran like a coward."

"Thanks," Fernpaw mewed, and took a slow bite. Talonpaw's words weighed on her, and she knew he was right; she didn't deserve to eat if she'd never caught anything. The mouse suddenly tasted bitter in her mouth, and she nudged the body away.

"Yes," Brownfur said, and it sounded almost as if she was pleased. "That's what we'll do. Fernpaw, we'll train you to hunt."

. . .

Fernpaw concentrated. She could smell the moss, just a few tail-lengths ahead of her.

"Concentrate," she heard Brownfur demand. "You can't get too close, or the mouse will see you. Tread lightly, or it will feel you. You're lucky you're downwind, is all I can say."

Fernpaw wanted to mew a reply, but that would alert the 'mouse' and it would get away. She bit back her reply and instead took a few more tentative steps forward, before coiling her muscles and springing forward.

She almost missed it entirely, but one paw managed to hit the moss ball. Quickly, she pinned it with the other, and bit into it, 'killing' the 'mouse'. Moss had never tasted so good.

"I did it!" Fernpaw crowed, and she heard Brownfur purr.

"It only took a moon for you to do it," Brownfur laughed, but behind the laugh was worry; Shadestar was sickly, and had been den-ridden for several days now. The whole Clan knew it was only days until he joined StarClan, and then Brownfur would be their leader. To many, this was almost a death sentence for the Clan. To Fernpaw, it was hopeful. She was confident Brownfur would lead the Clan well.

"Brownfur!" a familiar voice exclaimed, and Fernpaw turned her head towards Whiteflower. "Brownfur…it's time," Whiteflower said, her voice trembling. "You should…you should say your goodbyes."

"He's…?" Brownfur's voice almost cracked. Whiteflower must have nodded, for Brownfur spoke to Fernpaw, "I've got to go. I'm not sure when we'll train next…but I'm proud of you, Fernpaw, okay?"

Fernpaw nodded slowly, and she felt Brownfur and Whiteflower pad off together, towards Shadestar's den. It looked like their leader was on his last legs.

. . .

By nightfall, Shadestar had passed away, losing his last life and leaving Brownfur as MarshClan's leader. The Clan was beside itself; tensions with ShellClan were high, and as for the mountain Clan….

Fernpaw turned her head, hearing Brownfur calling her Clan together with the news. Fernpaw rose to her paws, only to be jostled by Talonpaw as he shouldered past her.

"Didn't you hear? This is for those able to _catch their own prey," _Talonpaw sneered. His voice was deeper than before, and his steps were heavier; Talonpaw had grown much in the moon, and he would soon be a warrior. Fernpaw could only hope that as a warrior, she would no longer be the source of his amusement.

"I can catch my own prey," she whispered, but Talonpaw was already out of earshot.

"I'm going to the FourPool and earn my nine lives, and take the name of Brownstar," Brownfur announced. "Whiteflower will accompany me tonight; I need to get my nine lives as quickly as possible."

Tension rippled through the Clan, and Fernpaw could feel their unease; for some reason, no cat thought Brownfur would be a good warrior. _Don't underestimate her! _Fernpaw thought fiercely. _She'll be a great leader._

Brownfur must have leaped from the TwistTree, for Fernpaw scented her scent.

"I'll be back tomorrow, as Brownstar," Brownfur said, and nuzzled Fernpaw's muzzle. "We'll train again then, okay?"

Fernpaw nodded eagerly, and felt Brownstar pad away with Whiteflower.

_I'll make you proud, _Fernpaw swore, feeling Talonpaw's scorn on her pelt. _I'll show MarshClan. I can catch my own prey! I'll catch more prey than anyone else! They'll name me Fernhunter! _

She flexed her claws, feeling the movements of her Clanmates around her, as Brownfur left camp. No one paid Fernpaw any attention; the only ones that did now were the bullying apprentices. Fernpaw was invisible to everyone else, just someone to pity. _Not anymore._

Fernpaw turned and dashed out of camp, slowing as she wiggled under the old, fallen tree that marked the entrance.

_Proceed carefully in the marsh, _she heard Brownfur say in her mind. _You can't just scent the trees around you; you can run into them if you aren't careful, or fall and injure yourself. Be cautious._

As if on cue, Fernpaw tripped over a thin tree root, earning her a face full of mud. Spotting out a mouthful of the brown-black glop, she continued, feeling mud plaster her fur and disguise her scent from her prey.

She padded deep into MarshClan's territory, ears pricked and mouth opened to catch any scent. And then there it was: Mouse. Trembling with excitement, Fernpaw crouched, creeping forward slowly, careful to feel before she stepped. She couldn't let this mouse get away; she had to make Brownfur proud, to show Talonpaw what she was really worth.

Closer and closer she got, the mouse's scent rising in her mouth until it was all she could smell. And then, from her left, the sound of a twig snapping, and her mouse darted away. Holding back a spit of anger, Fernpaw turned, only to have the strange smell of the mountains hit her nose. Her eyes widened. Enemy warriors, in MarshClan territory!

"This place is filthy!" a voice said in disgust. "Mud everywhere! I don't know why Northstar wants this territory."

"He wants it all," another voice said, "and he'll have it. One of our spies saw Brownfur and Whiteflower moving towards the FourPool; Shadestar must be dead, and that means the Clan is vulnerable. Brownfur will never be a strong leader, even with nine lives."

"Yes she will!" Fernpaw cried, and it wasn't until she heard her own voice that she realized she had said it out loud.

"What? An apprentice?" one of the mountain warriors cried, before letting out a derisive laugh. "She's blind!"

"Catch her, idiot, she'll warn the Clan!" another voice hissed, and there was a splash as a cat floundered towards her. Fear welling up inside her, Fernpaw turned, breaking into a run. She had to warn MarshClan!

She struggled blindly through the mud and tangled roots, falling several times. She could feel the warrior's breath on her tail, and she opened her mouth.

"H—" Her voice was cut off as a warrior plowed into her, knocking her to the ground. She flailed with her claws unsheathed, fighting blindly. Her captor let out a hiss of pain as her claws glanced off his muzzle, before Fernpaw felt sudden pressure at her throat. She let out a gurgling scream, and felt her body drop from the warrior's jaws.

"She's a goner," his voice rang in her ears, almost echoing, growing fainter. Fernpaw let out a rasp of pain, but everything was fading around her, everything was fading….

_She opened her eyes, and blinked into Snakefang's calm face._

"_Trying to bite off more than you could chew," he said sadly. "You didn't lear your lesson, did you?"_

_Fernpaw looked around herself in a panic. What forest was she in? There were no birches, so this wasn't BirchClan's territory, nor was there the sound of crashing waves, so she wasn't on ShellClan's._

_Then, her eyes widened, as she realized it was Snakefang's face that she was gazing into, as she realized she was actually looking at anything at all._

"_I can see!" she cried. "But that means…." Her eyes widened even further. "I-I'm…?"_

"_Dead," Snakefang said grimly, "and the rest of our Clan will join you too. MarshClan is dead. Perhaps that is how it should be…we were corrupt, broken. MarshClan's time is over."_

"_T-they're really going to kill us all?" Fernpaw whispered. "But why?"_

_Snakefang clenched his jaw. "First us, then ShellClan, and then BirchClan will fall. And then Northstar of the mountain Clan, impaled on his own claw, so to speak…." Snakefang laughed, but there was no joy in it. "Come with me, Fernpaw. Your injury is healed. You're of StarClan now."_

"_But I was…never a warrior," Fernpaw whispered. "I never did _anything._ I never got to really fight for my Clan, to hunt for them…nothing!"_

_Snakefang blinked at her with sad eyes. "I know," he said softly, and his tail rested on his flank. "I never got to mentor. But it will work out, you'll see; there is much to be seen in StarClan, much to be done. We'll need you. You'll be one of us. You'll hunt for StarClan, just as you would have for MarshClan…and I will teach you."_

"_Brownfur?" Fernpaw asked. "Can I wait for her?"_

_Snakefang laughed again, a low, raspy purr. "She won't be coming with us for a long time yet."_

"_And Talonpaw?" Fernpaw asked. "I hope he rots!" The venom in her voice seemed to surprise Snakefang._

"_His death will be painful, which he deserves, but we have no control over that. He was many things, but he was not an evil cat. He'll come here as well."_

_Fernpaw sighed. "I can really help, though? I'll really hunt?"_

_Snakefang smiled at her. "We'll call you Fernhunter," he replied, and Fernpaw found herself blushing at her foolish name. "Let's go," he said, flicking his tail. Fernpaw gave a glance over her shoulder, but behind her was only smoke. She sighed again, and trotted after Snakefang, into the brightness of the forest, where the smell of prey filled her nose._

**AN: MarshClan? Does that sound familiar in any way? Brownfur, huh?**


	3. 2 Sinking

**2. Sinking**

_She flailed her paws wildly, as the water pummeled her body, hitting her against rock after rock. Her mouth tried to open in a scream, but all it did was allow water to come flooding in through her mouth, through her nose, maybe even through her ears, she couldn't tell. All she knew was that she was at the river's mercy…and the river had no mercy._

. . .

"Come on, Scaredypaw!" her brother chirped, from the other side of the river. "It isn't that far, you can do it!"

"Don't be mouse-hearted!" another apprentice said with a laugh.

"I'm not scared!" she retorted hotly. "You know I can't just very well with this!" She gestured to her back leg with one paw. It was slightly crooked. She had twisted it when she was only a kit, when her brother's antics took her too close to the edge of their camp set on the side of a cliff. She had fallen from one ledge to another, landing on her leg. To her credit, her mother said she didn't cry, just sniffled a bit, even when the medicine cat set her leg in place. However at the time, their medicine cat was old and trembling, and didn't set her leg right; it healed slightly crooked. It wasn't truly debilitating, and she was still an apprentice; she could still run at a decent pace, pounce, fight and hunt. However, rearing back on her hind legs was impossible, climbing trees were out of the question, and leaping any farther than a small pounce wasn't a good idea.

"I can't jump that far," she said, a whimper of fear in her voice. "I'll drown!"

Her brother and his friend shared glances. "Alright, Robinpaw. We won't make you."

Her brother's friend flicked his tail. "There's a log over there that you can cross on if you want to."

"Or you could jump," her brother needled.

"I'll take the log, thanks," Robinpaw said, flashing her brother's friend a smile. She padded downstream a few paces, finding the log easily. It was old, oak, and rotten. She tapped it nervously with one thin gray paw, before taking a deep breath and scurrying over it as quickly as she could. She let out a breath of relief as her paws touched firm ground on the other side.

"You're pretty fast," her brother's friend observed, and Robinpaw realized she didn't know his name. She flushed with embarrassment.

"What's your name?" she asked timidly. She had been in the medicine den for much of her younger moons, and she still didn't know all of her Clanmates.

"Blizzardpaw," he replied with a smile. His blue eyes glittered at her.

"Robinpaw, like Jaypaw said," Robinpaw meowed. "I would have leaped if I could."

"I think it's pretty brave of you to even train, with your leg like that," Blizzardpaw said. Robinpaw couldn't help but feel a bit hurt.

"It's not that bad," she said defensively. "I can do anything anyone else can."

"Except jump over rivers," Jaypaw laughed. Robinpaw turned to glare at him, and then suddenly sprang forward, pinning him beneath her.

"Some things I can do better than other apprentices can," Robinpaw said, grinning down at her brother. He wiggled beneath her.

"Get off of me," he grumbled, and Robinpaw let him up. "Show off."

Robinpaw purred, glancing at Blizzardpaw to see if he had been watching, but the white tom had disappeared. Robinpaw frowned, glancing at Jaypaw.

"Where did your friend go?"

"How should I know? You were on top of me!" Jaypaw twisted his head, trying to lick his ruffled back.

"I guess he ran off," Robinpaw said with a frown. "Some friend."

"Ran off? Hardly!" Blizzardpaw's voice made her turn. He was coming out of the brush with a plump thrush in his jaws. "While you two were _playing, _I decided to get some _real_ apprentice-work done," he bragged, dropping the thrush on the ground. "It tried to fly when I went after it, so I had to jump really high." His blue eyes twinkled with mischief. Robinpaw rolled her eyes.

"You're a show off too," she meowed, and then glanced up at the sky. "It's getting late, we should get back to camp, huh?"

"Yeah," Blizzardpaw and Jaypaw agreed. Robinpaw watched as Blizzardpaw and Jaypaw sprang over the river effortlessly, and felt a flash of jealousy.

"Sure you aren't going to try?" Jaypaw teased. Robinpaw padded to the bank, wanting so badly just to flex her paws and jump. She half-crouched, but felt her injured leg tremble underneath her, and she knew she would never make it. She bowed her head, and padded back to the log, trotting over it quickly. She followed Jaypaw and Blizzardpaw back to camp, her ears flattened slightly with shame. She couldn't even jump over a single river, or to catch a thrush.

"Want to share this with me?" Blizzardpaw offered, and it took Robinpaw a few minutes to realize he was asking her. She flushed.

"Sure," she said, and ignoring her brother's amused glance, settled down beside Blizzardpaw.

"You first," he offered, nudging the thrush towards her. It smelled strange, but she obligingly took a bite, chewing slowly.

"Tastes strange," she said slowly, and when she looked down at the thrush, she almost choked. It was full of writing maggots.

"Gross!" Robinpaw yelped, springing to her paws. She turned to Blizzardpaw, fury in her eyes. "Is this your sick idea of a joke? Feeding the cripple crowfood?" she spat.

"N-no!" Blizzardpaw stammered. "I found the thrush on the ground, I was hoping to impress you by catching it so fast, but I didn't know it was full of—"

"Liar!" Robinpaw spat, and hooked the rotting thrush with one claw, throwing it in his face. "I never want to see you again, Blizzardpaw!"

Blizzardpaw, his muzzle spotted with maggots, narrowed his eyes. They were as cold as chips of ice. "Fine," he snarled, "I don't want to see you again either!"

Robinpaw stalked away without another glance back.

. . .

She faced the river, watching her reflection contort. She had to hold back a whimper, and she angrily splashed the river, sending a spray of droplets flying into the air.

"Stupid leg," she spat. "Stupid Blizzardpaw. Stupid thrush. Stupid river…." _If I wasn't a cripple, cats would be nicer to me, _she thought miserably. _Blizzardpaw would have never done something like that to Jaypaw, or one of the other apprentices…just me. Jerk. I hate him!_

She could feel her pelt prickle with fury. _I'll show him, _she vowed. _I'll catch my own stupid thrush, all by myself. I'll jump for it if I have to, and then I'll eat it right in his face! Then he'll be sorry, the stupid furball._

She watched the river flow by in silence for a moment. _Or, better yet, _she thought as a plan formed slowly in her mind, _I can jump over the river! That will show him I'm not a cripple. That will show everyone._

She smiled and rose to her paws, crouching and coiling her muscles beneath her. _I'll make it and show everyone, _she thought, ignoring the slight tremor in her bad leg. Letting out a yowl, she sprang forward, using all her might. For a moment, she thought she would make it, as the opposite bank grew closer and closer to her paws. Then, searing pain spiked up her leg, and she crumpled in on herself, almost curling up. She felt her front paws tap the bank, but the rock was slick with mist from the river, and she couldn't get a grip. She only had time enough to let out a cry for help, before the river dragged her under.

She flailed her paws wildly, as the water pummeled her body, hitting her against rock after rock. Her mouth tried to open in a scream, but all it did was allow water to come flooding in through her mouth, through her nose, maybe even through her ears, she couldn't tell. All she knew was that she was at the river's mercy…and the river had no mercy.

She felt herself gagging on the water, felt her paws gradually stop fighting as they became too heavy to move, felt the pain as she hit the rocks dull gradually. Everything seemed to be dulling, even the tightness in her chest….

Then she felt pressure on the back of her neck, felt a sharp tug, felt firm ground under her paws for a moment as she was dragged on her side. Her eyes drooped closed, and dimly she thought she could hear someone yelling her name. She felt pain in her chest – not tightness, something else – and her body suddenly jerked. Her eyes opened, and her back arched as water came spilling out of her mouth and nose. She coughed, feeling as if her very lungs were clogged. She blinked blearily, feeling air fill her lungs instead of water.

Blizzardpaw's concerned blue eyes blinked down at her. "A-are you okay?" he stammered. Robinpaw opened her mouth to reply, but all that came out was a yowl of pain. She closed her eyes again, trying to find the source of the pain; it was not her lungs, surprisingly, or her bruised body, but her bad leg. She had only a second to wonder at it, before pain claimed her, and she was out like a light.

. . .

"I think we can make it heal right this time," she heard a voice say, and she opened her eyes slowly, staring at the dark pelt of their medicine cat. The old medicine cat had died two moons ago; his apprentice, Hollyfeather, had taken over his duties.

"Are you sure?" Robinpaw heard her mother ask anxiously. "You think you can set it the right way again?"

"Mother?" Robinpaw croaked. "What's going on?"

Her mother's cream face gazed down at her anxiously. "You broke your leg again in the river, sweetie," she whispered. "Hollyfeather says she thinks she can set it again, so it will heal properly this time. Your leg will be fine!"

Robinpaw smiled up at her mother. "Blizzardpaw?" she rasped.

"He was with you since you fell in; he thinks it is his fault for some reason," her mother mewed. "Hollyfeather had him leave so we could discuss your leg."

"Tell him I said I was sorry," Robinpaw mewed, before her eyes drooped closed once more.

. . .

She stared into the river, splashing idly with one paw. She peered down at her reflection, smiling as her eyes found her leg. It still wasn't exactly right, but it was straighter than before; still a little stiff, but Hollyfeather said that would fade in time.

Her eyes widened as she saw a flash of white, and she turned to see Blizzardfur.

"Hey," she purred with a smile. He sat down next to her, and dropped a thrush at her paws.

"Want to share?" he asked with a smile. "I promise, I caught this one fresh."

Robinpaw let out an amused purr. "Sure. Congratulations on becoming a warrior, again. I like your name."

Blizzardfur's whiskers twitched. "You'll get your own soon. You're leg is all better, and you'll be a warrior in no time. Nothing can hold you back."

She blushed. "Thanks." She took a bite of the vole, chewing slowly, savoring the taste. "Definitely maggot-free," she purred.

"I'm glad. This time you won't throw it in my face," Blizzardfur laughed.

"Sorry about that," Robinpaw said, embarrassed. "I over-reacted a bit; I thought you were playing a prank on my on purpose."

"I'd never do that!" Blizzardfur exclaimed.

"I know that now."

They sat together in silence for a few moments, enjoying the way the moonlight sparkled on the river.

"Thanks again," Robinpaw said. "For saving me, I mean. Why were you out there?"

"I was hoping to apologize," Blizzardfur confessed. "I shouldn't have lied about catching the thrush, I just wanted to impress you."

Robinpaw shuffled her paws with embarrassment. Again, they were silent.

"So," Blizzardfur said, breaking the silence. "Do you think tomorrow you might want to come hunting with me? I can show you my thrush-catching technique."

Robinpaw smiled up at him. "I'd like that. Maybe a few swimming lessons, too."

Blizzardfur laughed. "It's a date, then."

Robinpaw blinked up at him, her eyes glittering mischievously. "Yes," she mewed, "it is."

**AN: Originally these were completely new characters, since this was written before Frostfeather had her kits in Shattered. However, I liked the characters and they fit so snugly into Shattered's canon that I just carried Blizzard, Robin, and Jay over. So this one-shot is kind of like...a parallel universe or something? I dunno. :p**


	4. 3 Father

**AN: Sometimes I hate myself when I write sweet stories. **

**Oh look, some old friends~**

**3. Father**

He cocked his head to one side, staring up at the sky.

"It's so blue here," he observed, glancing at the dark tabby beside him. "Doesn't it ever rain, or anything? There's hardly a cloud in the sky!"

The tabby nodded to the east. "Clouds are coming, but I'm not sure if a storm is following."

"Hmm," he sighed. "I miss her."

The dark tabby glanced at him. "Foxfire?"

He rested his head on his paws. "Yeah, who else?"

"She'll be here soon enough, Tigerstripe," the dark tabby said consolingly. "I'm still waiting for your mother to join us."

Tigerstripe blinked at his father. "Dapplefur is an elder now, though; she'll be here soon. Foxfire, though…it could be moons."

Oakstripe flicked his tail over his son's nose. "Don't wish for her death," he growled. "Allow her to enjoy the time she has. She's got two kits to take care of now, remember. _Your_ kits."

"And I wish I could see them too," Tigerstripe sighed. Oakstripe let out a low purr.

"Your old tom isn't enough for you?" he asked. Tigerstripe smiled at him.

"Of course," Tigerstripe purred. "I wanted to know you all my life."

"And you've got your entire afterlife to get to know me," Oakstripe chuckled. Then, he sat up, transfixed by something Tigerstripe couldn't quite see. "There was so much I should have taught you," Oakstripe said. "Fathers are supposed to teach their sons things, you know. There were so many things I was never able to say…things you'll never teach your son either." Oakstripe smiled sadly. Tigerstripe blinked slowly.

"So tell me now," Tigerstripe offered, making himself comfortable. "We've got all the time in the world."

"Yes, we do," Oakstripe said with a chuckle. "Did I ever tell you about my father? He was – is – a great cat. I'll take you to meet him some day, he doesn't live in this part of the forest anymore."

"No, I didn't even know I had a grandfather. I mean, I knew I had to have a grandfather…you know what I mean."

Oakstripe's whiskers twitched. "His name was Stripedpelt, and I was named after him, sort of; he died before my warrior ceremony. Still, he taught me all of the important things, like how to coax a she-cat." He laughed quietly. "Dapplepaw first took notice of me when I tried to catch a squirrel, you know. I was an excellent fighter for my time, but my hunting skills were a bit…lacking. There was a squirrel on the branch just above me, about to spring to another branch. As it leaped, so did I, but I missed it by a long shot and plummeted to the ground…right on top of her. She wasn't too pleased, obviously, and nearly clawed my nose off."

Tigerstripe laughed. "Dapplefur? Claw _anyone's _nose off?" he scoffed.

"She was quite a fighter back in her time," Oakstripe laughed. "And that's when I first really though I liked her. Of course, I went about it all the wrong way; I was a show-off, a bit puffed up. Whenever she was around I tried my hardest, and ultimately embarrassed myself. It was as if whenever she was in a two tail-lengths radius, my failure was assured. I can't even tell you how many mice must have gone home to their kits chuckling about the idiot who missed them completely when they were right out in the open.

"Since obviously my real skills wouldn't impress her, I tried showing her my fake skills…that is, I lied. A lot. I told her all sorts of things, like how I had caught the biggest mouse ever seen in the forest, how I had taken on six ShadowClan warriors at once and a badger as well, how I had once ran out an entire family of foxes. She was a moon younger than myself, so some things she couldn't prove I hadn't done, but when I told her there was actually a fifth Clan that I had destroyed, she drew the line.

"Since my hunting and lying skills were both terrible, I turned to my greatest strength; my strength itself. I was phenomenal in battle, able to take on apprentices twice as old as myself easily while we sparred, and even defeating a young warrior or two. Whenever she was around, I started picking fights with fellow apprentices on purpose, to show her how strong I was. The other apprentices forgave me, seeing how smitten I was, but Dapplepaw only saw me as a bully.

"I was at my wit's end then, without any idea what to do. It would be too embarrassing to ask my mother, but my father…he might understand. I went to him, and I was surprised when he just laughed at me. He had been in the same position himself with my mother, and he had learned what it was she-cats liked. They weren't crazy about stuck-up fighters; what they wanted was a caring tom, someone who would look after them and care about more than their feminine wiles.

"So I started trying his tricks. I asked Dapplepaw if she would eat prey with me – naturally not prey I had caught myself – I trained harder so that I _could _eventually catch something for her, just for her. I offered myself as an ear for her complaints, and I stood by her when the tom _she _was mooning over rejected her (although he did it for my sake). And eventually, we became friends. If we had never become friends…well, you wouldn't be here." Oakstripe laughed quietly, and Tigerstripe smiled.

"What I wish I could have known when I was down here is how to tell someone you don't like them…the way they do," Tigerstripe said ruefully. "Poor Whitefeather. I mean, I know it worked out for her in the end, but I still feel a bit guilty."

"Father had the answer to that too," Oakstripe said with a twitch of his whiskers. "I didn't have that problem, but you were _sensitive,_ huh? 'You've got to let 'em down easy, boy,' he always told me. 'She-cats are a different sort, a gentler kind. You let 'em down hard, things will get bad for you.'"

"I was lucky Whitefeather understood," Tigerstripe said with a slight yawn. He stretched, his tail curling over his back. "I wish I could tell Dusk-kit these things…I think he's going to be our next medicine cat, though, don't you? Batflight still doesn't have an apprentice, and little Black-kit and Swiftkit are too wild, and I'm sure Firekit is the same way…."

"He might be," Oakstripe considered. "We'd have to speak with a real medicine cat to really know…Petalcloud, maybe. They can usually tell."

"Could I still speak to Firekit though, even if she doesn't want to be a medicine cat?"

"I don't know," Oakstripe replied. "StarClan can only speak with a few cats that aren't leaders or medicine cats. It takes a special sort of cat…there have only been a pawful of those sorts of cats, and most of them share the same blood, like Firestar."

"Foxfire is of Firestar's blood," Tigerstripe said quickly. "The part of me that held Tigerstar remembered her, and hated her for it. Do you think…do you think it might be strong enough? Do you think I could speak with her in her dreams, and Dusk-kit and Firekit too?"

Oakstripe blinked slowly. "This is the first that I've heard of Foxfire sharing blood with Firestar," he answered. "But if she really does…it might work. Obviously the blood is weak, so you could probably only meet with her once a moon, or so. The time would be even less with Dusk-kit, unless he becomes a medicine cat. Same for Firekit."

Tigerstripe's amber eyes were shining. "But…if I could speak with her again, even just once…." He rose to his paws. "How do I do it?"

"I never have, outside of the Moonstone," Oakstripe said. "There are a few cats that might be able to help; Spottedleaf used to visit her precious Firestar often. ThunderClan probably owes themselves to Spottedleaf's many warnings."

"Where do I find her?"

"Relax," Oakstripe said, sweeping his tail against the grass. "You'll have time enough, and you have to wait for Foxfire to sleep anyway." Oakstripe cocked his head to one side, concentrating. "She'll be asleep in a few hours. You can try then." Oakstripe rose to his paws slowly, and smiled at his son. "Let's find Spottedleaf."

And with that, father and son padded away together, into the brush.

**AN: Sort of a boring chapter, just Tigerstripe spending some time with his daddy.**

**Gah, me and my stupid do-the-themes-in-order rule. There are some I have perfect ideas for right now, like one will be Snowhawk telling a story to a character that we don't know yet, and I Could Have will involve Blackheart….It'll be so funnnn.**

**Also, I'm not going to write a separate story for Fear or Blackheart, because my timelines are crappy and I kind of bend time to my will when I write. I will, however, include several chapters for them and other involved characters, to placate you guys. Don't eat me. xD**


	5. 4 Exploit

**4. Exploit(ed)**

Coughs wracked her frail body, as she huddled against the scrap of cloth, trying to warm herself as best she could. Longing filled her, and names ran through her mind, _Foxpaw, Lionpaw, Whitepaw, ThunderClan, Fawndapple, Firestorm…._And the names repeated, again and again, an eternal beat within her mind.

"Gingerpaw," someone called, but she was too tired to respond.

"_Gingerpaw!" the voice shouted again, and she slowly opened her eyes, to find herself in the middle of a shadowy forest. She blinked slowly, and her eyes widened._

"_A-am I dead?" she stammered, pressing her belly to the ground in fear._

"_No," the voice that had called her into sleep said, "not yet." _

_A dark tabby melted out of the shadows. His eyes were a bright amber, and his pelt was riddled with scars. Muscles rippled beneath his dark, striped fur. Gingerpaw's eyes widened._

"_Tigerpaw!" she cried, and then blinked. This tom looked almost identical to the Tigerpaw she had known – he had the slash on one ear, the scar over his nose, the steady amber gaze – but he was older, and his face lacked the compassion that Tigerpaw's had held. "Y-you're not Tigerpaw."_

"_No," the tabby said, sitting down and curling his long tail around his paws, "I'm not."_

"_Are you his father?" Gingerpaw asked. The tom considered the question for a moment, and a slow smile slid over his muzzle._

"_Yes."_

_Gingerpaw's eyes widened. "Why am I here?"_

"_This is where you will go when you die," the tom said, cocking his head to one side, watching her. "Unless you change your fate."_

_Gingerpaw's ears flattened. "How can I? I was exiled…and for good reason. I killed my mentor. I almost killed my best friend!"_

"_Cats can change," the tom said slowly. "Lives can change. Gingerpaw, what would you do if I told you I could get you back into ThunderClan?"_

_Gingerpaw's eyes grew huge in her ginger face. "Anything," she breathed. "I would do anything to have things back the way they were."_

"_You hardly want that, do you?" An amused smile curled the tom's muzzle. "Berated, look down up, ignored, spurned by your loved one? Do you really want to go back to that?"_

"_Anything has to be better than this," Gingerpaw whispered, "this living alone."_

_The tom smiled wider. "I can help you, Gingerpaw. I can give you everything; power, prestige, respect. I can make you so powerful that ThunderClan will welcome you back as their leader."_

_Gingerpaw's eyes shone. "Really?"_

"_Yes," he meowed, "and you only have to do a few things for me…."_

"_Anything," Gingerpaw said. "I'll do anything."_

. . .

The rat tasted fowl in her mouth, like crowfood. It was freshly caught, but diseased; Tigerpaw's father had ordered her to bring it to the border. He had been vague with the details, but she knew WindClan would blame ShadowClan for this, perhaps even declare war. _Does that tom want war between the Clans? _She wondered, but pushed the thought away. It wasn't her business. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that she fulfilled her duties, and gained the power she had promised.

WindClan's scent grew in her nose, and she glanced around, selecting an open space where the dropped the rat. Hopefully, some lazy apprentice would pick it up, and take it to camp; if not, she would simply have to catch another. It wouldn't be hard.

_I need to make the cure, _she thought. The tom had told her the herbs to mix, so she wouldn't catch the disease as well.

It took her several hours to gather all of the herbs she needed - some she had never heard of before from Petalcloud – and she made the cure in her makeshift camp, a little cranny between two rocks. She chewed it slowly, smiling to herself.

_That much closer to home._

. . .

She could scent them approaching, and she tensed, peering down through the foliage. She reeked of WindClan's scent, but that wasn't enough; she needed to get one of the cats alone. Then she could strike.

There were three cats on this patrol, two warriors and one apprentice trailing behind. She licked her whiskers in anticipation, as the apprentice's head turned, perhaps by a bird or mouse. The apprentice called out to the other two warriors, who continued on ahead. Gingerpaw smiled at the opportunity, and sprang down from the tree.

She landed squarely on the apprentice's back, feeling his muscles ripple underneath her paws. She grasped his back firmly, and then slashed his throat just as he let out a cry, which turned into a gurgle. The gleam in his amber eyes died, and Gingerpaw pressed her pelt against his until his warmth had faded, making sure to leave strong WindClan scent on the body, letting the warriors know exactly who had killed their apprentice.

And with her duty done, she slunk away.

Gingerpaw lost track of the cats she had killed or mauled on the dark tabby's orders; enough that she became uneasy. None of the attacked knew who she was; they never even saw their attacker. If they did, they died; it was that simple. Still, it was beginning to weigh on her mind; she began dreaming of walking in a pool of blood, staining her claws red.

_I started this to make sure I could go home, and eventually to StarClan, _she thought._ But with all of this blood on my paws…could I ever walk the skies?_

Her ears flattened, and the dark spirit that padded in her dreams sensed it, for he appeared to her that night.

"_We're on the brink of war," he whispered, slinking around her in a circle, his cold amber eyes tracking her. "WindClan will fall first. Then RiverClan, and then ShadowClan; ThunderClan will rise above the rest, and you will be the reason. With your new powers, they'll make you their leader, Gingerpaw. You'll have everything you could ever have wanted!"_

_Gingerpaw's ears flattened. "But so many will die," she mewed fearfully. "ThunderClan cats, even."_

_The tabby smiled. "Who will pay the price? Lionpaw, who broke your heart? Whitepaw, a false friend? Foxpaw, who never cared for you as a sister should? Your Clan didn't care about you. They never thought you'd amount to anything. That's why we have to prove them wrong. Don't you want to be strong, respected?"_

"_Of course," Gingerpaw meowed, "but surely there's another—"_

_The attack came so quickly that Gingerpaw didn't know what had happened, at first; she found herself staring up at the dark tabby, who snarled at her._

"_Having regrets?" he growled, and Gingerpaw yowled as his sharp claws dug into her shoulder._

"_No, no no!" she yelped, and the tabby released her. Gingerpaw felt blood drip down her shoulder._

"_I'm sorry," she whimpered. "I'll do what you ask!"_

"_All I need you to do now is hide," he growled, "and let my plan do its work."_

_Gingerpaw nodded quickly, and the forest around her began to fade._

When she opened her eyes, she half expected to find her shoulder wet with blood. As she sat up, sharp pain – as if claws were digging into her – flashed through her shoulder. She immediately twisted her head to look at it, but there was no wound, only a few drops of blood that had not been there moments before.

. . .

Nightmare after nightmare plagued her as the days went by. She was covered in blood, her parents were covered in blood, Lionpaw was covered in blood, Foxpaw was covered in blood and crying out for her….Guilt, endless guilt hounded Gingerpaw as she slunk through the forest, watching the four Clans go about their lives while she remained unseen and unnoticed. The battle between WindClan and ShadowClan was coming, but something was wrong; ThunderClan and RiverClan were going to war.

The dark tabby in her dreams was furious.

"_How could you let this happen?" he snarled, and Gingerpaw cried out with pain as he slammed his paw into her muzzle, claws unsheathed. She crumpled to the ground, helpless, unwilling to fight back. _

"_ThunderClan will be destroyed by them, if they have the help of the rogues!" the tom seethed. "You must have done something wrong!"_

_Gingerpaw could only whimper as the blows rained down upon her; she couldn't fight him. He was the only way she could ever get home._

"_You're useless," he spat finally, stalking several paces away. "Completely useless. You've failed me, Gingerpaw. ThunderClan will fall and my plan will fail….You're just as much of a disappointment as everyone believed."_

_Gingerpaw stared at him disbelievingly. Surely he didn't mean it?"_

"_But you…you," she whispered. "You're going to help me get home."_

_The dark tabby just laughed. "You're a failure. Do you think they'd ever want you back?" he sneered. "You'll never get home now."_

"_No!" Gingerpaw yowled desperately. "No!_"

"No!" she yowled again, his laughter still ringing in her ears. She shuddered, uncomprehendingly. Even the dark tabby thought she was useless…he had lied to her! He had never intended on bringing her home at all. He had just used her, exploited her for his own gains. He never wanted to help her. It was all a lie.

Gingerpaw closed her eyes, burying her face in her paws. All of those cats dead because of her, for some mad tom's sick dreams and plans. Everyone had lost; the four Clans were going to war together, a war that no one could win. They were too evenly matched; it was hopeless. At dawn RiverClan and ThunderClan would fight, as would WindClan and ShadowClan.

Everyone had lost.

_No! _Gingerpaw thought, and she rose to her paws, spitting with anger._ I'm not useless! I'm not going to be used by him! I'll prove it. I'm not worthless._

But what could she do? The battles were already set in stone.

Or were they?

Something occurred to her, and she sprang forward, racing as quickly as she could to the border between WindClan and ShadowClan.

Their scents rose in her nose, threatening to choke her, and she skidded to a stop on top of a ridge stared down at the lines of cats, ready for the sun to come up and launch themselves at one another.

"No!" she yowled, her voice echoing over the battlefield. Heads turned towards her, cats stared at her with surprise.

"You can't fight!" Gingerpaw meowed, racing down the ridge towards them, stopping between Swiftstar and Darkstar.

"Why not?" Swiftstar demanded, eyes narrowed. "ShadowClan poisoned us!"

"WindClan's killed our warriors and apprentices!" Darkstar spat.

"WindClan's killed no one!" Swiftstar hissed, his claws unsheathed. The thin tom looked ready to claw Darkstar's muzzle off.

"Neither has ShadowClan!"

"Stop fighting!" Gingerpaw yowled. "Neither Clan killed anyone. It was all a trick!"

Both leaders turned towards her again. "What do you mean?" Darkstar asked suspiciously.

"RiverClan is the cause of all this," Gingerpaw meowed, thinking quickly. "I belonged with the rogues that Streamstar is working with. I moved the rat to the edge of the territory, and I killed both ShadowClan warriors and RiverClan warriors on her orders. She's trying to take over the entire forest; she's insane! Once I learned of her mad plan, I knew I couldn't let her go through with this."

Darkstar looked unconvinced, but Swiftstar appeared eager to remove the blame from his Clan.

"I told you WindClan never harmed anyone," he said to Darkstar.

"ShadowClan never poisoned your Clan either," Darkstar replied with a growl, but he was still uncertain.

"RiverClan and ThunderClan are going to fight today; ThunderClan will be wiped out with the help of the rogues," Gingerpaw said. "They need your help!"

Gingerpaw saw Blackheart's eyes widen.

"We still have a truce with ThunderClan," Blackheart mewed to her leader. "We have to help them."

Darkstar glanced at his warriors. "Even with two Clans against one, the rogues will not mind killing Clan cats," he said. "If we don't fight WindClan today, fine, but I'm not sacrificing my Clan, truce or no truce."

Blackheart's ears flattened. "We can't just let them die!"

Swiftstar glanced at the ShadowClan cats. "WindClan will be going home, now that this is settled."

"If ThunderClan falls, so will the rest of you!" Gingerpaw exclaimed, fearful that ThunderClan might yet be lost. "RiverClan won't stop with just their territory. With the success of taking down one Clan, they'll gather their forces and get more rogues to help! All of the Clans are in danger. If you turn a blind eye to this now, you won't be ready to face this problem later."

Blackheart raised her chin. "I've a debt to repay to ThunderClan," she meowed. "One of their warriors saved my life; you know that, Darkstar. We must repay our debts to them. I don't care if all of you come with me or not, but I hope you all sleep well tonight, knowing that you've let an innocent Clan die, rather than fight for them!"

Blackheart turned as if to leave, but Darkstar touched her flank with his tail. "You're right," he said softly, rubbing his muzzle against her shoulder. "We do owe ThunderClan. ShadowClan repays its debts; we will not run from this. ShadowClan, follow! We must fight for ThunderClan!"

ShadowClan yowled in surprise, and Gingerpaw turned to Swiftstar.

"Are you just going to let ShadowClan show you up like that?" she asked. "RiverClan will lose the battle, and you'll be the odd Clan out; ShadowClan and ThunderClan will be tighter than ever."

Swiftstar's amber eyes gleamed with defeat. "WindClan will help as well," he said to his warriors, although he didn't sound enthusiastic about it. Gingerpaw watched as the two Clans turned together, racing towards the river. Soon, Gingerpaw was alone.

_I can't fight myself; RiverClan and ThunderClan will kill me on sight, _she thought, _and I can't hide behind WindClan and ShadowClan. But I can still watch, and make sure my sister is safe, for all the trouble I caused._

Her heart felt like a stone in her chest, as she realized she would never set foot in ThunderClan territory again. She had truly lost her home moons ago, and nothing she did now would change that. But perhaps, she could still ensure her sister would be safe, repay the debt she owed.

Gingerpaw turned her muzzle towards the river.

. . .

She stood upon the rock, watching the battle unfold, her eyes scanning it for any sign of a ThunderClan cat she recognized. With the turmoil of the battle, it was too hard to tell. Gingerpaw glanced around, making sure she was still hidden, and settled down. If she saw her sister in trouble, or Whitepaw, she would help.

The battle seemed to rage for hours, until the rouges fled for their lives. RiverClan didn't have a prayer without their allies, but Streamstar was too maddened by rage to save her Clan. Gingerpaw watched with shock, frozen, as Streamstar killed a young RiverClan apprentice. Her heart leaped as she saw Tigerpaw approaching Streamstar, his fur bristling with a challenge, only for Streamstar to grab a ginger cat and flee. Gingerpaw blinked in surprise, and then saw the anguish on Tigerpaw's face. She realized who the ginger cat was.

Foxpaw.

Instantly, Gingerpaw turned and ran, following Streamstar's scent. She had to save her sister, to repay what Foxpaw had done for her by letting her go all those moons ago. She kept to the brush, knowing if Streamstar saw her, it would all be over for Foxpaw. She kept Streamstar in her sights, stalking her, but there was no opportunity to pounce. Streamstar continued moving with single-minded determination, finally collapsing near the falls, setting down Foxpaw to rest.

_Streamstar's mad, and the world would be a better place without her, _Gingerpaw thought, watching the she-cat pant with exhaustion, while Foxpaw lay limp at her side. _I guess…I guess I could say the same thing about me._

And Gingerpaw suddenly knew what she had to do.

Gingerpaw crept forward, until another scent reached her nose. She twisted her head, peering through the brush and her eyes widened in disbelief; Tigerpaw!

"What's he doing here?" she whispered to herself, but she could see the desperation in his amber eyes. She realized he was planning the exact same thing that she was.

_Tigerpaw's a good cat, better than I ever was, _she thought. _I can't let him do this._

"Wait, Tigerpaw," she hissed. Tigerpaw turned, and disbelief and anger flitted across his face.

"You," he whispered, at first sounding confused. "You!" he hissed, and she could almost feel his rage crackling between them.

"Be quiet!" Gingerpaw hissed. "You'll disturb them, and it will be all over for my sister."

"Why do you care? You turned your back on ThunderClan!"

"I did…but that was many moons ago," she replied, and she closed her eyes, remembering. "Foxpaw saved my life. ThunderClan would have killed me, and rightfully so; I should never have hurt my Clan. All over a stupid mouse….

"When I fled, I had to leave the Clans entirely," she continued. "I did a lot of thinking those moons, in the Twoleg city…a lot of thinking. I realized…everything I had done was wrong…that I wouldn't be going to StarClan, thanks to the crimes I committed. And then I realized something else…I was _sorry. _Not for Cinderfur, but for her family, and for Whitepaw. I almost killed my best friend, the only cat that had ever stood by me…." She bowed her head. "I made terrible mistakes, Tigerpaw. But just when I thought I wanted to die, wanted everything to be over, a cat came into my dreams. He looked like you – I thought my might be your father at first – and he explained everything, told me of a grand plan that would make you the deputy of the Clan. I didn't care about that, but then he said that…if I did everything right…he would give me power, power enough that ThunderClan would have to let me back…power enough that I could be home again…." Her voice broke, as the moons of loneliness crashed over her. "You have no idea, Tigerpaw, what it is like to be utterly alone and hopeless, and then be given a chance….

"So I did what he commanded. I disguised my scent and left a diseased mouse for WindClan to find, knowing they would blame ShadowClan. I rolled in WindClan scent markings to give myself WindClan scent, and attacked RiverClan and ShadowClan cats. I did other things too, terrible things, so RiverClan and ShadowClan would go to war with WindClan. The dream-cat wanted the Clans destroyed, and WindClan was weakest, so they had to go first…then RiverClan, the Clan that ShadowClan and ThunderClan both hated. Then ThunderClan, having only been in one war, would be strongest and destroy ShadowClan. He didn't expect Brightstar to declare war on RiverClan, thus destroying his plan. He was so angry, Tigerpaw…he did terrible things to me…." Gingerpaw shuddered. "And then I realized this could not be your father, Tigerpaw. He was not noble like you, or even honorable. His plan's madness suddenly became clear to me, and I turned my back on him. I knew ThunderClan would never take me back, no matter what I did. I didn't care. I had to save the forest from what I had done.

"WindClan and ShadowClan were supposed to fight each other at dawn today, Tigerpaw. But I managed to get there in time, just as they were lining up to fight each other. I explained everything. Swiftstar believed me immediately; he didn't want WindClan blamed for a war they didn't cause, and even if I was lying, WindClan would be cleared. Darkstar was harder to convince, but Blackheart won him over, out of concern for you, Tigerpaw. She was afraid you'd be killed….Batpaw too. So those Clans rallied and raced all the way to RiverClan to aid ThunderClan in the battle, to take down Streamstar once and for all. I thought my job was done, but I hung around to watch the battle, to make sure my sister was safe….She saved my life, after all. I wanted to attack Streamstar, but I couldn't risk exposing myself; ThunderClan would have killed me without a second thought."

"This is taking too long! Get to the point! Foxfire is about to die!" Tigerstripe hissed. "It's great that you know you were a monster, but there's no time for that now!"

"Wait, Tigerpaw," she ordered. "You don't quite understand yet. I know I'm irredeemable for what I did. But I have to save my sister, and repay my debt. There is one way to save her, and I am sure you already thought of it…but I can't let you do that."

"I'll fight you if I have to," Tigerpaw growled. Gingerpaw shook her head slowly.

"You don't understand, still, do you?" she asked. "Do you remember our first battle against RiverClan, all those moons ago? When you called out Foxpaw's name, thinking I was her, and saved my life? I told you I must repay my debt, Tigerpaw. And that means yours, too. I'm not going to let you die." She let out a quiet breath. "I'm going to kill Streamstar myself. We'll go over the cliff together, and you can get Foxpaw to safety."

"I…." Tigerpaw trailed off, and Gingerpaw he was confused. She understood; not even Gingerpaw herself knew whether she was truly a monster or not.

She turned her head towards Streamstar, and saw the she-cat was getting to her paws, bending to pick Foxpaw up again.

"Now or never," Gingerpaw said calmly. "Tigerpaw…please, do two things for me. First, tell Foxfire about how I died…I want her to know I still…love her…." She closed her eyes. "Second…tell Whitepaw I'm sorry."

She could still feel Tigerpaw's confusion, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except saving Foxpaw. Gingerpaw tensed, coiling her muscles beneath her, and then sprang forward, charging at Streamstar. Streamstar's mouth opened in a cry of surprise that turned into a yowl of pain as Gingerpaw hit her, and the two of them plunged into the river.

Gingerpaw was submerged before she even had time for a breath. She flailed her paws, letting go of Streamstar to struggle for air. Her muzzle reached above the water just long enough to draw a breath, only to lose it as she slammed into a rock. She blacked out for a moment, feeling dully the pain of hitting another rock. She could feel herself spinning as the river played with her, tossing her this way and that way, but she had no more strength to fight with…and even if she did, did it matter? This was how she wanted to die, saving her sister and taking down one of the forest's darkest evils, not alone in an alley somewhere simply waiting for death.

Gingerpaw felt herself go limp, even her lungs quieting their screams for air. She smashed against another rock, but felt no pain, as blackness consumed her.

She welcomed it.

**AN: Just a lil something-something I thought I'd do for this chappy. Interesting, to see things from Gingerpaw's POV?**

**Whether StarClan or the Dark Forest came after the blackness is your call, ha.**


	6. 5 Boredom

**5 Boredom**

Her tail twitched slowly, as she stared up at the sky, watching the puffy clouds float by. She smiled, rolling onto her back and lifting her paw as if to touch the clouds. She could almost feel them, their gentle fluffiness soft against her own soft pads.

She frowned at her pink pads, and rolled back onto her stomach. Her pads had been one of the reasons those Clan cats had passed her by. That, which had indicated that she didn't have the blood of a warrior, paired with Frostpaw's jealousy had meant that she had been left behind.

_Stupid Frostpaw, _she thought, batting angrily at one of the nearby bush's large pink flowers. _Stupid Frostpaw. If it wasn't for you, I'd be in a Clan, having adventures and fighting enemies, all that cool stuff._

She let out a quiet sigh, knowing she couldn't blame it all on the white she-cat. She had been immature and foolish at the time, treating everything like some sort of game to release her from her boredom; not even the wise Wander, her idol, thought she was worth anything.

_I've been exercising and trying to catch the birds in our yard, though…practicing my fighting skills, and stuff. If those cats ever come back, I'll be ready this time. I'm tired of being a house cat; I don't do anything, I don't have anything to do…I just sit around eating nasty food. Eventually I'll be old and fat with nothing to show for anything!_

A flutter caught her attention, and she turned to see a sparrow underneath the bush, picking at something. She smiled to herself and crouched, creeping forward slowly. Just when the sparrow was in reach, a voice distracted her, allowing the sparrow to slip away.

Instead of turning towards the voice, she moved further into the bush, hiding herself while moving into her favorite watching place, where the branches split slightly allowing her to see the fence.

"They said they went through this neighborhood at one time, looking for cats; this is where I met them," a familiar voice mewed. She blinked, realizing that it was Wander. But who was she with?

"Who did they contact?" another voice, male this time, asked.

"Buttercup, Hedge, Shaw…Gale and Bree, and Otter as you know."

Wander and the other cat came into view; the male was a white tom, with golden eyes.

"This is Hedge's yard; I think she wanted to join the Clan, kind of, but they decided she didn't have the right blood for it…she's a bit dull, but she's a good cat," Wander meowed, and then raised her voice. "Hedge! Hedge, are you here?"

She hesitated a moment, and then slowly padded out of the bushes. She saw surprise glimmer in Wander's eyes; was she surprised at how much more fit Hedge had become?

"Hey," Hedge said coolly, blinking at the white tom. "Who's he?"

"This is Lune; he comes from the forest," Wander explained. Hedge blinked slowly; 'Lune' didn't sound like Snowpaw's name, and she knew the other cats had gotten new names as well.

"He isn't with Snowpaw's Clan, if that's what you're wondering about," Wander said quickly. "But the Clan is in grave danger; the bosses of the city were beaten moons ago by Ruin, who apparently has had his eye on the forest for some time…." She trailed off, realizing that Hedge probably knew nothing about the bosses. Hedge bristled.

"Yeah, the cats who used to rule the city were all killed by Ruin, I know," Hedge snapped. Wander looked surprised again. "What do you want? I'm so useless the Clan wouldn't even take me, remember? I'm too stupid for riddles." Hedge realized she sounded bitter, but she didn't care; Wander had disregarded her before, moons ago.

Wander's yellow-green eyes softened. "No one thinks you're useless, Hedge. Quite the opposite; the Clan can't hope to defeat so many of Ruin's brutal cats. We're trying to round up other cats to help as best we can, or the entire Clan might be lost."

"And you're asking me for help?" Hedge couldn't keep the surprise out of her voice. "Really?"

Lune nodded slowly. "You and the other cats that Snowpaw met here might be the Clan's only hope."

Hedge blinked slowly again. "Who else have you asked?"

"Shaw has agreed to help; you probably don't know him, he's an alley cat. He has a few things to take care of, but he'll rejoin us later," Wander replied. "We're on our way to Buttercup's house right now."

Hedge blinked slowly, thinking of Snowpaw; he had been cute then, he was lots older and stronger now, probably. She smiled at the thought, and then nodded.

"I'll help."

This time, Wander didn't look surprised, simply smiling and flicking her tail. "Come on, then; we don't have time to waste."

Hedge crouched, and then pounced, her front paws landing on the fence. Wander moved to help her, but Hedge let out a warning growl, and pulled herself up without help. Wander flicked her tail, and the three cats continued down the fence.

Hedge recognized Buttercup's yard as the home of the 'barking beast' as Lincoln was known in the surrounding nests. He was bigger than she had imagined, but oddly not frightening, with his warm brown eyes and golden-orange-white fur.

"Lincoln, can you tell Buttercup we're here?" Wander asked gently. Hedge glanced at her, wondering why she was talking as if the dog could understand, but his tail was wagging as he trotted back to his nest, scratching at the door and whining. Moments later, Buttercup appeared, springing onto the fence.

"Wander, Hedge," she purred with a smile, and nodded to the white tom. "How can I help?"

"Snowpaw, the tom who came to you asking if you would join his Clan, is in grave danger," Wander said. "He and the rest of the Clan are going to be crushed by Ruin in a battle, soon."

Buttercup's eyes were round. "Can't they just run?"

Lune's lip curled, but Wander didn't become angry with the simple kittypet's ignorance. "The point of a Clan is to fight to defend your territory and Clanmates; not only that, but they truly have nowhere to go. They fled here to the city last time, but Ruin controls the city; running away would only make the problem worse. We're trying to find cats who will help us fight for the Clan."

Buttercup's eyes became even wider. "Oh, no, I couldn't find!" she exclaimed. "I mean, they seemed like good cats…but I'm just not a fighter, I'm not!"

Hedge's tail bristled slightly; she knew Buttercup was a gentle cat, but it still made her feel angry how she wouldn't risk anything for Snowpaw and the others.

_I was like that too, a kittypet who didn't know any better, _Hedge thought, and her jaw clenched. _I won't be like that anymore._

She blinked down at Lincoln, whose tail was still wagging as he looked up at the four cats. His mouth was open and he was panting, exposing his sharp white fangs.

"He can help," Hedge said. The others turned to look at her. "Lincoln, I mean," Hedge said quickly. "He can help, right? He's a dog, he'd be hard for anyone to hurt, and he seems good…he'd want to help, wouldn't he?"

Buttercup looked surprised at the very idea. "He's just a baby, he couldn't fight," she meowed, her ears flat.

Lune's whiskers twitches. "He's hardly a kit; he's full-grown dog. He could take down a cat without trouble, thinking it a game."

Buttercup blinked slowly. "But…he's just…." She looked down at her paws. "I don't want my baby to get hurt."

"As big as he is, I doubt any cat would try to even fight back," Wander said coaxingly. "Why don't you ask him, see what he wants?"

Buttercup glanced at Lincoln, and then smiled. "Baby, is that what you want? Do you want to go help them fight?" she asked gently. "You want to go to the forest?"

Lincoln let out a bark that sounded like any other to Hedge, but to Buttercup to seemed to mean something.

"Well…he does want to go," Buttercup said slowly. "And as long as he'll be okay and come home, I guess….But how will he get out?"

Wander glanced around the yard, and Hedge could see Buttercup's point; the entire yard was fenced.

"It's short in the front, there near the gate," Wander flicked her tail. "He could jump over that, with a good start."

Buttercup looked worried, but she relayed the instructions to Lincoln, who looked more excited than ever. He let out a loud bark and moved to the back of the yard, before running as quickly as he could towards the fence. Even Hedge was awed as the massive creature forced himself into the air, clearing the fence and landing on the other side. Quickly, the four cats padded to the front fence, where Lincoln waited for him, his tail still wagging eagerly. He rose on his hind paws again, putting his large front paws on the fence, and licking Buttercup, soaking her muzzle. Buttercup smiled, but she looked sad as she turned to Wander.

"You'll keep him safe?"

"We promise, he'll return home," Wander answered. She sprang off of the fence, landing beside Lincoln without fear. "We'll need to run down this street quickly, meet up with Shaw, and be on our way."

Lune sprang down beside her, and after a moment of hesitation, Hedge followed.

It was strange, the way they all looked, three cats trailing after an eager dog who would run to the end of the street and wait for them to catch up, before running down the next street, and so on.

With every pawstep, Hedge could feel herself getting that much closer to the forest, that much closer to her destiny. For, she knew, even if she made it through the battle in one piece she would not be returning to her Twolegs. She was bored of her life here, she was tired of being a kittypet, and she didn't want to live and die as just another kittypet in just another Twoleg home. She wanted to be someone, someone important, someone worth knowing.

A Clan was worth fighting for, perhaps even worth dying for.


	7. 6 Art of Conversation

**6. Art of Conversation**

_Rainsplash and Eaglestrike can collect the thorns, while Frostfeather and Death collect the wet moss._

_While Frostfeather and Death collect the wet moss._

_Frostfeather and Death collect the wet moss._

_Frostfeather and Death._

Silverstreak's words rang in his ears, and he blinked up at her uncomprehendingly. She was putting them together? To collect moss for the Clan? _Together?_

A chill of anticipation ran down his spine, and he turned to see Frostfeather looking at him. He gave her a bright smile, and she turned away, the fur on her shoulders ruffling. Death turned to see that Silverstreak was still talking, but he wasn't listening. Was that a gleam of amusement he saw in her blue eyes? Was she aware of how happy she'd just made him?

_Time for the two of us, alone! _He thought brightly. _I can finally impress her! Maybe I'll catch her something. The biggest mouse the forest has ever seen! That will impress her!_

Silverstreak let out a yowl, startling him, and she sprang down from the HighBranch. He bounced towards Frostfeather eagerly.

"Ready to go?" he purred cheerily. Her eyes narrowed.

"Just don't talk to me, and we'll get through this just fine," she mewed, acting as the ice queen, as always. He just smiled, taking a deep breath to steady himself.

_Remember now, smooth, _he thought. _You have to be cool to impress them, but you've got to be smooth, too. They love the smooth toms. I bet Brightfire is smooth._

He didn't know the ginger tom very well, except that he was the father of Frostfeather's kits and scared the living daylights out of the skinny black tom. Still, he'd managed to seduce Frostfeather somehow (or perhaps it had been the other way around).

"Well, let's go then," he said, wiping the smile from his face and trying to sound bored, as if he wasn't wanting to jump up and down because Frostfeather had to be with him whether she wanted to or not, for a few minutes at the very least.

"Let's," she snapped, and led them into the forest. Death moved quickly, trying to stay in front so that it looked like he was leading.

"Get out of my way, furball!" Frostfeather spat. "You're going the wrong way, anyway." Death paused to see that Frostfeather was pointing her tail in the other direction, away from the river.

"I knew that," he blustered.

"Of course you did," Frostfeather meowed, letting out a growl as Death moved in front of her again.

_I'll impress her with my leadership skills, that's it, _he thought. _I don't know where the moss is…but I'm sure we can find it, right? Easy peasy. _

"Death, have no idea where you're going, and I don't need you showing me the way. Move it or lose it."

Death turned to see that Frostfeather's claws were unsheathed; she was more on edge than he would have guessed. He didn't even want to think about what it was she was intending for him to lose. He moved out of the way quickly, allowing Frostfeather to plunge into the brush.

He trailed behind her, thinking quickly. _Okay…she has enough leadership skills for herself. That won't work. What might? _

He frowned, trying to come up with an idea. _That mouse I was thinking about earlier! The biggest mouse the forest's ever seen! That will impress her._

He stopped, but Frostfeather didn't notice, or perhaps she didn't care as she continued into the forest. Death lowered himself into a crouch, sneaking over the forest floor, mouth opened to catch the available scents. His golden eyes glinted as he picked up the scent of a mouse, and he grinned.

_Perfect, _he thought. _I bet it's the biggest mouse anyone has ever seen…ever! Frostfeather will be impressed then, I just know it!_

The scent grew stronger, and Death was trembling with anticipation. He could already taste the mouse, could already see Frostfeather's look of surprise as he dragged the colossal creature towards her, could hear her voice ringing in his ears ("Oh, Death, it's so big and juicy! This will feed our whole Clan forever! Come over here, you big, amazing, handsome, strong, talented tom-cat, you!"). He let out a thrumming purr, then crouched. He couldn't see the mouse through the brush just yet, but he was certain that he was close enough; he could hear it scrabbling its little mousy paws over the leaves ahead.

He sprang forward, paws outstretched, only for his eyes to widen in horror as he realized what he had just thrown himself upon. He landed paw-first in the middle of a giant thicket of thorns, which plunged into his paws and fur. He let out a yowl of pain, drowning out the squeak of a terrified mouse that had been foraging within the thicket. The mouse darted away, but Death found himself unable to move, trapped by the thorns snagging his pelt.

"Help!" he bleated like a kit. "Help! Ow, ow! Help!"

"Death? Where are you? Is something attack—" Frostfeather's voice was growing nearer, but suddenly broke off. He turned his head, narrowly missing a thorn to the eye, and saw her white face peering at him through the tangled mass of thorns. Death let out a low whimper, and her eyes narrowed.

"Furball? What in StarClan's name were you thinking?" she hissed. "I should just leave you there, you stupid tom!"

"Please, get me out!" Death begged. "It h-hurts!" He realized that his voice was breaking and he sounded like a kit, but he didn't care. The thorns felt as though they'd gone straight through his paws, and he whimpered in pain and fear. "Don't leave me, please!"

Frostfeather sighed quietly, and Death knew her big, beautiful heart couldn't just leave him trapped there. "Hang on," she growled, and began to pull the vines back with her claws. They were brittle, dead from the chill of leaf-bare, and snapped away easily. Frostfeather slowly cleared a path for herself, then reached in with her face to grab Death. He felt her teeth fasten on his scruff, sending another chill running through him at her touch, before she began to pull.

Death let out a shriek as the thorns pulled back, unwilling to let his fur go. Frostfeather gave a strong tug, and Death came loose, sending the black tom tumbling to the ground. He whimpered in pain, staring at the thorns poking into his paws. Two were in his hard pads, but one had managed to avoid the pads entirely, sinking into the soft, delicate space between his claws.

"Honestly," Frostfeather sighed, gripping one of the thorns with her teeth, and pulling it out. Death yelped with pain, drawing away from her as blood bubbled out where the thorn had been.

"That hurt!" he mewed, and Frostfeather's eyes narrowed.

"Of course it hurts, mousebrain, it's a stinking thorn lodged in your paw!" she snapped, snatching out another before he could move. "You've got them all over you, idiot. What were you doing?"

She pinned him down with one paw despite his protests, and began plucking out the thorns one-by-one, each one sending a new tremor through Death's body as he struggled not to whimper.

"One more," she growled, moving for the one between his claws, but Death shrank away.

"Please don't, it'll really hurt," he begged. Frostfeather drew back, watching him, obviously tired of pulling thorns out from his pelt.

"Fine, but you'll have to just suck up the pain as you walk," she mewed. Death nodded quickly, and Frostfeather turned away, continuing towards wherever the moss was. Death quickly rose to follow her, only to let out a hiss as the thorn dug deeper into his soft flesh.

_Just suck it up, like she said, _he thought. _Maybe you don't have good leadership or hunting skills…but you can have good tolerance skills, right? That will impress her for sure._

He began limping after her, wincing with each step he took, although he tried to hide it.

Frostfeather led the two of them to GreenRocks; Death blinked, seeing the large boulders scattered about the rocky slope. Every rock was covered in moss; it was a good place to gather the green stuff.

_She might not notice your paw, though, _he realized, _so you've gotta impress her some other way…let's see…compliments! Everyone likes compliments, but she-cats really really like them lots. She'll love some, and then maybe she won't totally hate you!_

He sidled up next to her; she glanced at him.

"How about we split up?" she suggested. "You gather your moss, I'll gather mine, everything will be great. Okay?" Before he could reply, she padded away, heading towards a large boulder. Her expression suggested that if he followed her, he'd quickly find himself underneath it.

He hobbled off to another rock instead, scratching the moss off of the rock with his uninjured paw and gathering it in his jaws. He'd managed to collect a pitiful amount, before he trotted towards her.

"Frostfeather," he called; she glanced towards him, and sighed.

"Yes, Death?"

"Has anyone ever told you that you have the prettiest fur? It looks like…new fallen snow. And, um, your eyes are nice. They're like…new leaves, before they die and get all brown and rot on the ground and stuff. And your fur is very thick and puffy, like clouds. It looks very nice, I'd love to just bury my face in it and—" He realized he was getting a bit carried away as Frostfeather cut him off.

"Look, Death. You say one more word, and I'm stuffing you into that tunnel and leaving you there, understand?" She flicked her tail towards a small tunnel in the slope, hidden by boulders and filled with moss. Death gulped, nodded, and limped away.

_Way to go, genius. That didn't work either. She _totally _hates you. _His ears flattened as he scratched half-heartedly at the mossy rock. _She hates you even more than you did before._

"Come on, Death, we've got enough. We need to get to the river and wet it," Frostfeather called. He turned quickly, limping after her as she disappeared into the forest.

He didn't say anything as they reached the river. Frostfeather dropped the moss, then dipped it into the water, holding it with her claws.

"Do it like this," she ordered. Death's ears flattened.

"I know how," he mewed quietly.

"Well, I figured you were dumb enough to hold the moss in your teeth while you tried to wet it, and you'd end up drowning or something," she growled. "It would take care of my problem, but of course I'd have to explain it to Silverstreak, and that just wouldn't be pretty. Hurry up, I want to get back to the Clan."

Death obediently dropped his moss onto the bank, pushing it into the rapidly-flowing water and holding onto it with his claws so it didn't float away. His injured paw burned in the ice-cold water.

_She really thinks I'm that dumb? _He wondered sadly. _This hasn't turned out at all like I thought it would…I thought everything would work out so nicely…but I failed at everything. I couldn't be a good leader, I couldn't hunt for her, I couldn't compliment her right, and even my trying to be tough hasn't worked…I'm such a failure. _His heart seemed to sink in his chest. _She hates me, like everyone else. Why do I even bother trying, when I'm such a failure?_

"Death!"

Death blinked, coming out of his reverie. He turned to Frostfeather, puzzled by her expression.

"What?" he asked gloomily, his thoughts still dark and stormy.

"Get your paws out of the water right now," she ordered. Surprised, Death yanked his paws back, blinking as his moss floated away. Frostfeather quickly snagged it, but Death's eyes widened as he saw a trail of red running through the water.

"Your paw is bleeding, furball," Frostfeather meowed, putting their moss to the side. "You left that thorn in? It's even deeper now. What were you thinking? I thought you wanted to take it out yourself so you didn't look like a mewling kit in front of me, like you were!"

Death's ears flattened. "I'm sorry, Frostfeather, I was trying to be tough," he whispered. "I was trying to show that I wasn't a softy. I wanted to impress you today, so I tried to show you how well I could lead and how well I could hunt and how I was strong and tough and that I knew how to compliment a she-cat well…but all I did was fail. And now you hate me." He looked down at his bleeding paw; the thorn was barely visible, and it throbbed like mad.

"Death."

Frostfeather's almost gentle tone made him glance up, and he was surprised to see that her green eyes had softened just a bit.

"Look, Death, I don't hate you. I'm just…irritated with you. You've tried hitting on me since the day we met, and it's getting really old really fast, okay? I'm kind of sick and tired of toms, to be honest…." She shook her head. "In the end, they're all the same. They all think they're smarter than me; they think that I can't just lead myself and go where I want to without a tom's strong guiding paw. They think that just because I'm a she-cat, I'm incapable of hunting for myself. They think that I want to see them swaggering around all mousebrained and refusing to be helped because they think they can tough it out. They think that just because I'm a she-cat, I have to be vain and like anyone who says something nice tome. And I'm not that kind of she-cat, Death. I like compliments and someone hunting for me as much as any other cat, but it isn't because I'm a she-cat, and I don't like it when toms decide that they have to take it upon themselves to win me over doing stupid things. Believe me, I've been with more 'macho' toms than I can count on one paw, and they all seem to turn out to be noble sexist idiots, in the end." She sighed softly. "I don't want anyone like that, Death. I want someone with a little class, someone I can talk to rather than just slip off into the forest with. Because that's what we really want, at the heart of the matter; someone we can talk to, someone who understands us."

Death blinked at her. "I can do that," he meowed quickly. "I'm a good listener. And a good talker. I can do whatever you need."

She shook her head, obviously frustrated. "You're doing it again, but you don't even realize it! I don't want someone who has to change who he is just to impress me or win me over. I want someone who is comfortable being himself."

"I can—" Death broke off, realizing his mistake. _I'm just doing it again, promising to change to be someone I'm not to become someone who is comfortable with himself…how confusing is that, huh? _

Frostfeather sighed. "I don't even know why I would try to explain that to you, of all cats. Come on, give me your paw so we can get this over with. Okay?"

Death held out his paw, golden eyes fixed on her face. Frostfeather reached forward to grab the thorn in her teeth, but paused, her green eyes caught by his.

"I'm sorry, Frostfeather," he said quietly. "I didn't realize how much I was…bothering you. Making you feel uncomfortable. I'm trying to be someone I'm not when I'm around you, I know that…because you're right. I don't like who I am. I mean, I'm scared of kits and I can't hunt worth a mouse tail half the time and I seem to fail at—ow!" He let out a yelp of pain; Frostfeather had gotten the thorn while he was distracted. She spat it out, and Death winced at the throbbing pain in his paw. For a moment, he wanted to pretend it didn't hurt, to try and be tough. Then, he saw that Frostfeather was watching him, her expression guarded.

He licked his paw slowly, like a kit would, with a quiet sigh, giving up on his tough persona. To his surprise, Frostfeather smiled.

"Maybe you aren't so hopeless after all," she mewed. "At least you listen. And listening is half a conversation, you know; perhaps you'll get there eventually, to where you really understand how to talk to a she-cat, huh?" She bent to pick up her moss. "Come on, Death. Let's go home. Ravenwing will need to look at your paw."

Death picked up his moss as well, wincing as he took a step. "It really hurts," he meowed, trying to stir up some pity in her defrosting heart.

"Don't overdo it, Death."

**AN: This obviously takes place before Robinkit's accident…but I thought it would be interesting to see from Deathy's point of view again, and it kind of justifies why Frostfeather forgave Death so quickly (besides the whole leaping-into-a-burning-den-to-save-my-kit bit).**

**Plus, it is yet more evidence that Deathy is just a walking ball of fail. Yay. **

**Also (and I know someone will ask) the reason Frostfeather said that Death didn't hit on her when she spoke with Silverstreak later after coming back to camp is because she didn't want to get him into trouble, and it was kind of a nonissue at that point, but if she'd said that Death had hit on her but she didn't mind then Silverstreak would have thought she liked him back, which is the last thing that Frostfeather wants anyone to think. And Deathy obviously promptly forgets this lesson when taking Buck's advice to try to be 'dangerous yet compassionate' to impress Frostfeather later. But maybe being true to yourself while your actual self changes (like going from a total coward to a cat that can leap into flames to save a kit, even if it only ever happens once) still counts. I dunno.**


	8. 7 Take Your Best Shot

**7. Take Your Best Shot**

"Are you sure?" she asked slowly, glancing to the side. "It looks really big…and hard…and scary."

He blinked at her with round, innocent amber eyes. "Would I lie to you? Of course it'll give way, don't you worry. _Real _warriors can go right through them. Honest. Just take your best shot."

Her eyes narrowed, and she crouched, her fluffy tail whipping from side to side as she prepared to spring, her eyes narrowed as she watched her enemy. She licked her dainty white whiskers, concentrating as hard as she could, practically feeling her target giving way in front of her already.

She let out a terrifying yowl, racing forward with all her might, feeling the power of StarClan behind her. It felt as if she was tearing through the air itself, slicing through it like a hawk's talon.

She ran into the stone wall of the den, turned slightly so that she impacted it with her shoulder. Pain lanced up her side, and it felt like the imaginary hawk's talons were now sinking into her flesh.

She fell back with a cry of pain, lying on the ground, whimpering for a moment. She heard him let out a peal of laughter, before rushing to her side as she didn't get up.

"Oh man, Rabbitkit, are you okay?" he asked anxiously. "I didn't think you were actually going to _do _it. I thought you'd mouse out of it!"

She smiled at him weakly, biting back the pain. "Oh, it hardly hurts," she mewed, not wanting to see him sad. "Really, Volekit, I'm okay!" She sprang to her paws to prove it, staggering to the side slightly and wincing at the aching that throbbed through her shoulder.

"Are you really sure?" the ginger kit asked nervously. "You're okay? You're not hurt? You're not gonna tell your mother?"

Rabbitkit let out a quiet purr, licking his shoulder; she couldn't stand seeing her best friend worried. "Right, I'm fine. And you should have known better than to think I would mouse out of it!" She nudged him playfully, then whimpered as the movement jolted her shoulder.

"What's going on?" she heard one of the other kits mewl sleepily. She glanced over, smiling as she saw it was little Hawk-kit. He'd only learned to talk a half-moon ago, but since then he hadn't seemed to be able to hush for even a moment. Still, he was a cute little kit, and for once Rabbitkit was actually able to feel mature compared to someone else.

"Nothing," Volekit said quickly. "Go back to sleep, Hawk-kit."

The little kit's ears pricked. "Are you guys playing? Can I play too? I want to be Hawkstar!"

Rabbitkit and Volekit exchanged exasperated glances; Rabbitkit's foolishness moments before was forgotten in place of the two of them smirking at Hawk-kit's naiveté.

"We're not playing that sort of game," Volekit meowed. Then, he shot Rabbitkit a quick, mischievous glance. "We're playing a very special game. _Very _special."

Rabbitkit's eyes gleamed as she realized what he was doing. "Yeah," she said quickly, grinning down at the sleepy brown kit. "_Very _special."

"It's called…um…Take Your Best Shot," Volekit clarified. "You have to attack stuff. Stuff that the others tell you to."

Rabbitkit nodded. "Like I just attacked that stone wall, because Volekit told me to…_not _because he said I could go right through it." She shot him a glance, and Volekit flicked his ear at her apologetically.

"So what did you attack?" Hawk-kit asked Volekit, his eyes glowing with excitement. Volekit paused for a moment, before glancing to the side, seeing Rabbitkit's mother, Fawncloud, asleep.

"I attacked Fawncloud," he lied, speaking in a conspiring voice, "but not too hard. And don't ask her about it, she was really mad and I don't want her to be mad again, okay?"

Hawk-kit nodded quickly. "I want to play too!" he chirped excitedly. Volekit and Rabbitkit exchanged glances again.

"Even if you have to fight a wall?" Rabbitkit asked anxiously; she'd been hoping to get rid of Hawk-kit, not encourage him. But Volekit's eyes were gleaming; he obviously had a plan.

"Yes!" Hawk-kit exclaimed. "I'll fight that wall right now!"

"Whoa, slow down there!" Volekit laughed. "Rabbitkit already took care of that enemy…we'll pick out something just for you!" He started to circle Hawk-kit, glancing him over, a serious expression on his face as if he was sizing Hawk-kit up; only Rabbitkit saw the gleam in her best friend's eye. She let out a little purr; this would be good. Volekit always had the best ideas for games and the like.

"Okay," Volekit said finally, sitting down once more beside Rabbitkit. "Rabbitkit, do you know what he should fight?"

"No, what?" Rabbitkit asked, almost as excited as Hawk-kit to see what his enemy would be.

"The Badger," Volekit announced dramatically, letting out an equally dramatic laugh. Rabbitkit's eyes widened, but Hawk-kit simply looked puzzled.

"A badger?" he echoed.

"Not _a _badger," Volekit corrected. "_The _Badger."

Hawk-kit still looked confused. "What's so special about it?"

Volekit glanced at Rabbitkit. "Would you like to tell the story?"

Rabbitkit nodded, clearing her throat, trying to recall the story the way her mother had told it.

"Long, long, long long long long _long _ago, StarClan created the perfect forest," she mewed, speaking slowly as she tried to remember all the pieces of the story. "It was big and beautiful and grand, full of all sorts of plants and prey for cats to eat. StarClan crafted the territory specifically for a very special group of cats."

"PeakClan?" Hawk-kit asked, and Rabbitkit nodded.

"However, it took PeakClan a long long long long long long time to get to the forest," she continued. "We haven't even been here for long, you know. But even so, StarClan knew we would eventually come here, so they made sure that the forest was beautiful and wonderful and perfect in every way.

"But perfection often breeds jealousy. There are many other animals in the world that hunt prey, like snakes and foxes and stuff. But one of the very most dangerous kinds of predators is the badger. Badgers are huge, black and white like the night sky, with teeth that could tear a kit like yourself in half!"

As she spoke, Volekit lunged towards Hawk-kit, and the little kit flinched. Volekit laughed, and Rabbitkit grinned, but continued her story.

"Of all the badgers, there was one that was the very strongest. In his follower's tongue, his name was very strange and long; to cats it meant Big-Black-Claw, because of his long black claws. However, because he was the very strongest and most powerful and most dangerous, StarClan simply called him The Badger.

"The Badger led a lot of other badgers, who followed him because of his immense strength. The Badger learned of StarClan's perfect forest and decided that he wanted it for himself. Even though PeakClan wasn't there yet, StarClan knew they would need it in the future, so StarClan sent their strongest warriors to fight The Badger and the others that followed him.

"The battle was horribly blood, tearing the perfect forest apart; The Badger was so strong that his claws could go through stone, and when he sliced into the Peak itself, water burst forth, creating the waterfall and river that we know today. He continued to rip out chunks of the Peak, scattering boulders all over one half of the territory, felling beautiful tears and tearing up the landscape.

"Then, The Badger did the unthinkable; he defeated the StarClan warriors, and used his incredible claws to tear into StarClan itself!"

Hawk-kit's eyes were round with fright. "What did StarClan do?"

"As it happens, there were two more warriors that StarClan had not yet unleased; Lionclaw and Duskheart, truly two of the most terrifying warriors that anyone had ever seen," Rabbitkit meowed. "When The Badger entered StarClan, the two of them fought him together.

"This battle was even more fierce and bloody, but the StarClan warriors could not die and kept coming. The battle was so harsh that the moon itself was scarred; scars that we can still see today. But then, again, the unthinkable happened; either Lionclaw or Duskheart – no one knows for sure who – managed to sever one of The Badger's claws. It fell to the earth, becoming Badger Claw Rock, which still stands to this day.

"The Badger was taken aback and frightened; he had not thought such a thing was possible. His faith and his followers' faith were shaken, and, thinking that he would lose the rest of his claws to these fierce cats, The Badger and his followers fled from StarClan's formerly perfect forest."

Rabbitkit's voice dropped slightly; the true story ended differently than what she was about to say, but Hawk-kit needed to be even more frightened than he already was. "And, some say that The Badger will eventually return, to reclaim his fallen claw," she whispered. "In fact, it could even be today that The Badger returns to the forest for his claw…and a few kits while he's at it!"

Volekit sprang again, tackling Hawk-kit to the ground this time; the younger kit let out a frightened yelp. Volekit quickly let him up.

"You see, we think The Badger is returning," the ginger kit meowed. "And who else could fight it but you, right? I can already see you're going to be a really strong warrior. You have to find The Badger and kill him."

Volekit glanced at Rabbitkit, grinning, and she grinned back; Hawk-kit would be too scared to take the challenge, and he would leave the two of them alone, so they could play their own games without him tagging along and bothering them.

But when she looked back at Hawk-kit, she could see an oddly serious expression on his face. His amber-yellow eyes were still round, but they were slightly dark as he stared at his paws. He let out a quiet breath.

"Okay," he mewed. "I'll do it. I'll fight The Badger."

Rabbitkit shot Volekit a panicked look, but her friend remained calm.

"Thank goodness, Hawk-kit," Volekit meowed. "I'll feel a lot safer when you take care of The Badger for all of us. PeakClan will thank you for sure…we'll just have to wait until he shows his ugly face again. In the meantime, you've got to play with Icekit and Mousekit still."

Hawk-kit's face fell. "What? Why? Aren't I playing with you guys now?"

"You haven't actually won yet," Volekit pointed out quickly. "You can't play with us yet. You have to wait until The Badger comes and you beat him. Then you can play with us."

Rabbitkit let out a purr, pleased with Volekit's quick-thinking; now Hawk-kit would have to leave them alone, while thinking he was actually playing with them!"

"Quick, Volekit," she meowed. "Take Your Best Shot on…the prey pile!"

Volekit laughed, and the two of them dashed out of the nursery and towards the fresh-kill pile, their minds already on their stomachs and not on the brown kit, who watched them go with a somber expression.

. . .

They spent the rest of the day laughing and tumbling around the camp, pouncing on each other and pinning each other down. Rabbitkit had the advantage of being half a moon older, but Volekit was a large kit for his age, so they were evenly matched.

"That really was a great idea," Rabbitkit purred down at her friend, as she pinned him on his back. He quickly flipped her over, pinning her down instead.

"Yeah, wasn't it? I'm pretty fast on my paws," he meowed, puffing out his chest with pride. Rabbitkit took the opportunity to wiggle out of his grasp. She flopped on the ground, panting, glancing up at the sky; the sun was beginning to sink.

"He won't bother us again for like…a whole moon!" Rabbitkit exclaimed. "Maybe by then, we'll be apprentices."

"Yeah," Volekit said, glancing towards the leader's den. "I hope Lightstar's my mentor!"

"I want Rosedapple!" Rabbitkit meowed. "She's really pretty! And nice…."

Volekit nodded in agreement. "If I got Lightstar and you got her, we'd probably train together all the time, too," he said. "That would be awesome."

Rabbitkit yawned slowly, then stretched. She turned towards the den, looking into the entrance lazily. "Should we go back inside and go to bed?"

"No way!" Volekit shouted, bouncing eagerly on his paws. "The sun isn't even down yet!"

"It will be soon," Rabbitkit pointed out, but she could already feel her hyperactivity flooding energy into her limbs. She prepared to spring at the bouncing ginger tom, then turned as she saw movement in the nursery.

"Hey, g-g-g-uys," Mousekit stammered, padding towards them. "H-have you g-guys seen Hawk-k-k-kit?"

Rabbitkit twitched her whiskers, irritated by Mousekit's stammering. "He's supposed to be playing with you. He's not cool enough to be playing with us."

Mousekit's ears flattened, and Rabbitkit felt a flash of guilt. She licked his muzzle quickly, pressing her pelt against his. "Just kidding. No, we haven't seen him."

Mousekit's golden eyes clouded with worry. "B-but if he's not i-i-in the nursery and he's n-n-not here in camp…where could he b-b-b-b-b….Be?"

"Are you sure he's not around here?" Volekit asked, glancing around camp; Hawk-kit was nowhere in sight. Then, quickly, he turned to stare at Rabbitkit, his eyes wide; Rabbitkit's own eyes widened as she realized what Volekit was thinking. She pulled away from Mousekit.

"Why don't you go ask Graywing if she's seen him?" she asked quickly, giving her brother a nudge with her nose. "We'll look around here."

Mousekit looked curious at her, and Rabbitkit winced as she realized her voice had become rather high-pitched, but he simply nodded and headed towards the medicine den. She turned towards Volekit.

"You don't think Hawk-kit actually…you know?" she whispered.

"I don't know!" he answered, his eyes wide. "I think he might have…."

Rabbitkit turned towards the camp entrance; it was rarely watched or guarded, there was no need. They were too high for most predators.

"We've gotta make sure he's okay," Rabbitkit mewed. "If he's in trouble, it's our fault!"

Volekit swallowed anxiously, then nodded. "He can't be too far from camp."

With a look around the camp to make sure no one was watching, the two kits dashed for the entrance.

Hawk-kit's scent wafted into Rabbitkit's mouth as they neared the waterfall, and she shivered; surely he wouldn't have gone too far, looking for The Badger?

The pounding waterfall seemed to make the ground shudder under her paws, and she shivered, remembering how she'd said The Badger had created it and the river.

_He didn't go to the river to find The Badger, did he? _She wondered, her mind bright with horrific images of poor Hawk-kit floundering around in the river, drowning.

"Come on!" she squeaked, racing down the side of the Peak, heedless of the slick stones. Luckily, she did not fall, and Volekit reached the ground safely behind her.

She opened her mouth again, trying to find Hawk-kit's scent, but Volekit was better at scenting than she was.

"This way," he called, heading away from the river, much to her relief.

She followed Volekit quickly, towards the large boulders strewn over the territory. Volekit seemed to weave though the tangled mess with ease; by contrast, Rabbitkit found herself floundering and stumbling; her shoulder still ached from her lunge at the wall, making things even worse.

"I think he's going to Badger Claw Rock," Volekit whispered as they walked; Rabbitkit's fur bristled, and she imagined hundreds of badgers lurking in the shadows behind each boulder, waiting to strike.

"But they tell us not to go there, because badgers actually _live _around there!" she squeaked nervously. Volekit glanced at her over his shoulder.

"I'm pretty sure that's the point," he said dryly, before freezing as a muffled roar seemed to rock the two of them.

Then, Rabbitkit heard a scream; Hawk-kit.

"I'm coming, Hawk-kit!" she bellowed, dashing forward without a thought of her own safety.

She skidded to a stop, her eyes going so wide that they felt as if they were consuming her entire head, as she stared at the scene before her. The badger, slightly sleepy, was advancing on little Hawk-kit, who was standing his ground with bristling fur. Rabbitkit's breath caught in her throat, and for a moment all she wanted to do was to turn around and flee.

"Rabbitkit!" she heard Hawk-kit call. "Look! I found Big-Black-Claw!"

Rabbitkit's stomach seemed to flip over as the badger's dark claws glinted in the sunlight. "Hawk-kit, run!" she yowled.

"I've gotta fight it! You said so!" Hawk-kit shouted, moving to the side as the badger gave a lazy strike, hardly bothering with its tiny adversary. "I have to so I can play with you guys! And PeakClan will be proud of me!"

Rabbitkit's heart seemed to catch as he spoke; did he really look up to the two of them that much?

"Hawk-kit, you can play with us, just get away from him," she whimpered, terrified that the little kit would be crushed in front of her eyes.

He moved to the side again as the badger attempted to smash him with one paw; the creature was still moving slowly, still tired, but there was a gleam in its beady black eyes that suggested it was beginning to warm up.

"Hawk-kit!" she cried again, Volekit frozen at her side, just as the badger struck a third time. This time, Hawk-kit wasn't fast enough to avoid it; one claw caught his hindquarters, sending him tumbling. The black and white monster advanced, raising its massive paw for another blow.

"No!" Rabbitkit shouted, racing forwards, springing as though the badger was only another stone wall. She hit it with her paws, thorn-sharp claws penetrating its fur. It turned toward her quickly, eyes narrowed, before letting out a low growl that seemed to shake the earth under her paws. She turned to flee, but her shoulder let out a cry of pain, and she stumbled.

The badger's jaws wrapped around her long tail, and pain like the little gray kit had never known lanced through her body. She thought she heard a dull crunching sound, as the badger lifted her into the air, shaking its head back and forth like a dog. She was thrown all around, buffeted by his power, her head snapping back and forth so hard she thought that her neck would surely snap. Her tail screamed with pain, and it took her a moment to realize that a real scream was tearing its way out of her throat. She thought she heard Volekit or Hawk-kit yelling her name, but her ears were ringing. She could feel hot blood pouring from her tail, and her throat was raw from her screeching.

The badger suddenly stumbled to the side, taking her with it, then letting her go; she flew from its jaws, landing in a heap. She only had a moment to see a copper-furred warrior – her mother's mate, Foxclaw – tearing into the badger with murder in his eyes, before the pain was too much for her tiny kit body, and she disappeared into blackness.

. . .

She opened her eyes to see four pairs of eyes staring down at her.

_Foxclaw…Stoneheart? _She thought groggily, her gaze drifting from cat to cat. _Volekit…Hawk-kit? What happened? Where am I? My tail…._As she thought of it, her tail let out a low throb; she twitched it slightly, making sure it was still there, and another flash of pain ran through her.

"Rabbitkit, are you awake?" a gentle voice, warm and comforting, floated over her ears. She looked to the side, seeing that a fifth pair of eyes was watching her as well; Graywing. Just behind Graywing, Rabbitkit could see Fawncloud, who appeared frantic.

"Wha…?" Rabbitkit whimpered; she meant to ask what had happened, but her throat felt rough and raw.

"You're in the medicine den, dear," Graywing meowed, stepping to the side to allow Fawncloud to enter the den. Behind her was Mousekit.

"Oh, Rabbitkit! I was so worried! Your father was frantic, and there was blood everywhere when he came into camp with you and his jaws, and—"

Rabbitkit glanced to the two toms, wondering who Fawncloud was speaking of; Stoneheart, her biological father, or Foxclaw, her mother's mate.

_Foxclaw was the one there, _she thought. _It must have been him…he was really worried, though? About me? I'm not even really his daughter…._

She felt an odd warmth in her chest, which grew as she saw uncharacteristic gentleness in Foxclaw's eyes as he looked down at her. Then, he cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Graywing says you'll be fine, so I'll be going," he said quietly, brushing past his mate, leaving the den. Rabbitkit's eyes followed him, then flicked to Stoneheart as he gave her ear a gentle lick, before following the ginger warrior out of the den.

"Oh, but your poor little…." Fawncloud trailed off; she seemed to be staring at Rabbitkit's hindquarters.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't save it," Graywing said. "The badger did too much damage…it wouldn't have done her any good to leave it, and it was already mostly severed, you know…this way, she won't be in any pain."

Fawncloud trembled, and Rabbitkit slowly blinked. "What are you talking about?" she asked, her voice sounding weak and pathetic.

"Your tail," Volekit said; he looked shaken, uncharacteristically quiet. "It's gone."

Rabbitkit frowned at him. "No it's not. I can feel it." She flicked it for good measure.

"Sometimes, paws and tails can feel like they're there, even when they're gone," Graywing mewed. "The feeling will leave in time, but I'm afraid your tail is gone, Rabbitkit."

She blinked, feeling confused; she forced her head up, craning her neck around. Her tail couldn't be missing; how could she be a warrior without it?

She stared dully at the bloody stump, wrapped tightly with cobwebs and covered in some sort of juice. Her stomach seemed to curl, and her muzzle thudded back onto the ground. She trembled.

"My tail…?"

"I'm sorry, Rabbitkit," Hawk-kit whispered. "It's all my fault. I was trying to be brave, but you're the one who saved me…."

"But if I don't have a tail…how can I be…?"

Graywing's blue eyes were gentle. "Don't worry, Rabbitkit. You can still be a warrior; plenty of warriors have gone on without tails. You just won't be able to climb trees, and you'll fall a bit more often than other cats, but you'll be fine."

Rabbitkit swallowed. "You promise?"

Graywing nodded. "You have my word. You'll be a warrior in no time at all."

. . .

"Dapplefern, you are ready to take on an apprentice. You received excellent training from Dustflower, and you have shown yourself to be courageous and strong. You will be the mentor for Rabbitpaw, and I expect you to teach all you know to Rabbitpaw."

Rabbitpaw's heart pounded in her chest as she reached up to touch the dappled she-cat's nose; Dapplefern's dark green eyes glowed gently as she touched noses with her apprentice, before stepping back. Rabbitpaw paused, her name ringing in her ears as the gathered cats chanted it; she looked over at Mousepaw, and grinned. He trembled with nervousness, his eyes sweeping over the Clan, and she reached out to swipe her tail over his flank.

It took her a moment to remember, and she sighed; she still forgot sometimes, about not having her tail there to help. Instead, she licked his shoulder, and the two of them padded towards the apprentice den.

"This is our new home," she purred, glancing around. "I'll go get our old nests."

She headed towards the nursery, and was instantly swarmed by Icekit, Hawk-kit and Volekit.

"Rabbitpaw!" Volekit exclaimed. "How does that sound, huh? Rabbitpaw, Rabbitpaw, Rabbitpaw!"

"It sounds awesome," Hawk-kit grinned, before glancing at her tail; the fur was beginning to grow back, creating a rabbit-like fluff at the end.

"Quick looking at it," Rabbitpaw admonished him, nipping his shoulder. "It wasn't your fault. Besides, now I can be named something cool, like Rabbit-tail: Conqueror of Badgers!"

Hawk-kit was not cheered. "It was definitely my fault. I shouldn't have been so stupid and believed that story…looking for badgers was dumb. I could have been hurt, and I would have been if it wasn't for you."

"It was dumb of me to tell you that story," Rabbitpaw meowed, then glanced at Volekit. "And dumb of Volekit to come up with the idea!"

"Well, one thing's for certain," Volekit laughed quietly, "I think you definitely won that game of Take Your Best Shot!"

**AN: So it's confirmed: Rabbitpaw ran into walls. And apparently Northy feels like one. Hmm.**

**Also, thought we needed to see Foxclaw in a softer light.**

**Also, thought we needed to see Rabbit and Vole being best friends, since he's been mooning over Ice for most of the time we've known him.**

**Also, thought we needed to see why Hawkpaw got it into his head that he needed to 'protect' Rabbitpaw, like we saw in her special POV chapter. He has the guilts. **

**Also, you might recognize Lionclaw/Duskheart from JtR.**

**Also, we got a glimpse of how cats felt of Rosedapple before the whole Light-cheating-thing. Poor dear. **

**Also, 'also' in Spanish is 'tambien'. I like Spanish.**


	9. 8 Creativity

**8. Creativity**

She sprang forward, tackling the other kit over, knocking her to the ground. She let out a cry of triumph, before another kit knocked her over. She scrambled to her paws, stepping on someone's tail as she did so. She heard the queen to her left let out a whimper of pain.

"Sorry, Littlewing!" she exclaimed, stepping off of the queen's tail quickly. The queen sighed, flicking her tail out of harm's way.

"It's okay, dear," she said quietly. "But could you all please stop bouncing around so much? It's making me nervous."

"Sorry, Momma," the kit that had tackled her mewed. "I didn't mean to."

Littlewing swiped her tongue over his head. "I know, Crowkit. The four of you just need to settle down, you're more than any one cat can bear."

"I wanna play outside," another one of the kits complained.

"It's raining, Ashkit," the smallest kit, a little silver female, mewed. "Duh!" She giggled.

"Yeah, it's too wet outside to play…we'd get sick, like Honeykit. And Cloudkit's too little to play in the rain," Crowkit laughed.

She bristled. "I'm not little!" she growled. "I'm big and strong and fierce!" She sprang at him, knocking him down, nearly landing on Littlewing's tail once more.

"Please," Littlewing said weakly; she was a small cat, hardly bigger than her own kits it seemed at times, and she was not used to raising her voice. "Don't bounce around so much. You're going to get hurt."

Cloudkit blinked at her for a moment, just long enough for Crowkit to scramble out of her grasp. Her ears flattened. "But if we can't do this, what are we supposed to do?" she asked.

Littlewing rested her cream head on her paws. "I don't know. Find some way to amuse yourselves."

Cloudkit heaved a sigh, throwing herself to the ground; she felt Ashkit and Crowkit watching her curiously. She glanced at the third kit, the little silver female. "Any ideas, Featherkit?"

Featherkit blinked; she was a shy little thing, not one for speaking often. "Um. Not really. Well, I mean…."

"Yeah?" Cloudkit asked, sensing that her friend was close to some sort of idea, but was too shy to share. "What are you thinking, huh? I'm sure it'll be good, whatever it is. Your ideas are always good."

A slight smile came to Featherkit's face. "Well," she said shyly, "I was thinking that we could…um…tell some stories."

"Tell stories?" Ashkit echoed. "What kind of dumb idea is that?"

Littlewing flicked her tail at him. "Be nice, Ashkit. And I think that it's a good idea. You can each tell a story, and whoever's is the most creative wins, okay? You all can vote for your favorite."

"You'll vote too, right?" Cloudkit asked. Littlewing's whiskers twitched.

"I can hardly choose between any of my darling kits," she purred, and rasped her tongue over Featherkit's head. The little kit giggled, then looked around.

"Who wants to start?" she asked.

"Me!" Crowkit meowed immediately. "Come here, so you can hear my awesome story!"

The other kits gathered around him, sitting down, while Littlewing rested her head on her paws, blinking at her son.

"Once upon a time, there was an awesome kit named Crowkit," he began. "Crowkit was really, really awesome. He was so awesome that he became an apprentice at only three moons, and by eight he was a full-blown warrior. His name was…um…Crowkiller. Crowkiller had an apprentice by the time he was twelve moons old. And he trained her lots and she got her warrior name really early because her mentor was so cool.

"Crowkiller was a really great hunter and fighter. One day badgers attacked the camp and Crowkiller killed them. His apprentice fought really good too and was named a warrior but the deputy died so Crowkiller was made deputy. And then the leader died too and Crowkiller was leader and became Crowstar and the whole forest feared him so much because he was so fierce he could kill anything and he drove all the enemies away and protected his Clanmates and hunted for everyone and led patrols and mentored tons of apprentices and never lost a single life so he totally lived forever. And he was so cool that they changed the Clan's name to CrowClan, just for him, because he was so awesome. The End."

Crowkit beamed with pride, but his siblings simply stared at him.

"That wasn't a story!" Cloudkit protested, batting at his nose. "That was just what you _wish _you could be!"

"Yeah, loser," Ashkit growled. Crowkit glared at the two of them.

"It's totally a true story," he meowed, puffing out his chest. "Or, at least, it will be. You'll see."

Littlewing let out a quiet, amused purr. "It was a good story, Crowkit, I liked it. Who's next?"

Featherkit rose to her paws uncertainly, as Crowkit sat down. "Can I go next?"

"Of course, dear," Littlewing meowed. "Everyone, listen to Featherkit's story."

"Um," Featherkit said timidly, "my story is about how much queens love their kits and how the sunset and sunrise were made."

She still looked nervous, so Cloudkit gave her a quick, encouraging grin. The little silver kit took a deep breath.

"At the very beginning of the Clans, queens weren't thought of as being very important. All they did was produce kits, and raise them; so long as they were queens, they were just a means to an end, a way to feed the kits and create the new generation. Once the kits became apprentices, and the queens returned to their warrior duties, they resumed their duties, even though they were still looked down upon slightly as being weak. But so long as they were queens, they were simply treated as objects by the Clan.

"Naturally, many queens were not happy with this. Some of them went along with it; the gentle queens, those already well-suited for motherhood, didn't really mind so long as they were fed and taken care of by the Clan. But other queens, fiery cats who had worked hard to become warriors, didn't like the fact that they could perform no duties for their Clan so long as kits suckled at their bellies, that the Clan fed them only to feed their kits. But there was little they could do; toms are naturally larger and stronger than she-cats, and the she-cats were usually outnumbered because there were so few queens and they were divided. So the queens mostly accepted their lots in life.

"But there was one queen, whose name is lost to history, that felt differently. We don't know what her true name was; all we know is that she had ginger fur, and in our legends we call her Flamefur because of this. Flamefur loved her kits dearly, but she missed being a warrior as well, and was eager for her kits to become apprentices so that she could regain her freedom. However, she was also very scared that her kits would be hurt when they were apprentices. When they were named apprentices, she was relieved, but also very worried. She returned to her normal duties, but found that the Clan looked down on her, and this made her very angry.

"She loved watching her kits train, and sometimes she would even train with them to help them become stronger. But her kits were teased for being trained by her, because she used to be a queen. Eventually her kits asked that she wouldn't train with them anymore, because they were being made fun of. This made Flamefur very sad, but she agreed to stop training with them so that they would fit in with the rest of the Clan and now feel like an outcast, as she did.

"Flamefur was never allowed to lead patrols, or hunt by herself; the other male warriors felt that she was too weak and would get hurt. She always had someone with her. When the Clan fought in battles with the other Clans, she was never allowed to participate. She was always ordered to stay home with the other kits and young apprentices, to make sure they didn't get into trouble. This made Flamefur angry, but she did not want to dishonor her family by speaking out against the Clan laws, so she remained silent.

"Eventually her kits became the oldest apprentices in the Clan. They were all very close to becoming warriors. Flamefur was very proud, but also very worried, because she knew that warriors had hard, dangerous lives. Her kits were always the first ones to charge into battle to prove themselves.

"Tensions were becoming high with the neighboring Clan. A horrible battle was coming close, and every cat in the Clan knew it, including Flamefur. She was terrified for her kits, but she knew she could not help them; she would be ordered to stay home, as always. Sure enough, when the battle dawned and the warriors left to go fight, Flamefur was ordered by her leader to stay behind.

"She was plagued by guilt and fear as she huddled with the kits and young apprentices, waiting for her warriors to come home. The warriors came home at sunhigh, bloody, bruised, and victorious. Flamefur ran towards them, glad that the Clan had won the battle, but immediately she knew that something was wrong; the Clan looked somber. Slowly, they parted, revealing the dead body of one of her sons.

"Flamefur was overcome by grief and guilt; she wailed her sorrow to the sky. She sat vigil for him all night with the rest of her kits, and even though she knew his noble spirit was in StarClan, she still felt horrible for having allowed him to go into such a dangerous battle.

"Even though Flamefur's Clan had won the battle, the war still raged. The Clan's warriors left to fight again, and again Flamefur was ordered to stay home. This time, however, she refused. She snuck out of camp, following the warriors in secret to the battlefield; she knew she could not let her kits get hurt again. She charged into battle alongside them, much to their shock, but they couldn't order her home in the midst of the fighting.

"Flamefur was soon separated from her kits in the heat of battle, but she fought like a lion to return to them. She took on enemy after enemy, dispatching them with all the speed of a leopard and ferocity of a tiger, fighting to get back to her kits. She saw her son being attacked by two huge warriors, and raced to help him. He was badly injured, and couldn't fight them, so she fought both of them herself. She chased off one with ease, but the other was much stronger, and she was soon embroiled in a battle for her life.

"She finally succeeded in chasing the tom away, and she returned to her son, only to collapse at his side. The battle had been too much for the queen, who had spent so much time being ordered around and protected by the other warriors. She died there, on the battlefield, but not before saying goodbye to her son.

"Her son later described to the Clan her incredible bravery and ferocity. The Clan was shocked; never had they heard of a queen fighting for her kits so fiercely. For the first time, they saw the queens are more than care-takers and mothers for the kits. And StarClan saw this too. And so, to honor Flamefur, they cast bright red blood across the sky at dawn, so show how a queen bleeds to bring her kits into the world, and cast blood across the sky at sunset, to show how a queen is willing to sacrifice her own life to save that of her kits.

"And from that day forward, queens were honored as true warriors, and blood has been cast on the sky at sunrise and sunset every day." Featherkit finished her story, eyes shining, only for her ears to flatten as she waited nervously for her siblings' judgement.

Cloudkit grinned. "That was a really good story, Featherkit!" she purred, licking her foster-sister's shoulder.

"Very creative," Littlewing meowed. Featherkit beamed proudly.

"You should go next, Ashkit," Cloudkit mewed, nudging him. Ashkit glared at her.

"I don't want to tell a stupid story," he grumbled. Littlewing's gaze was firm.

"Your brother and sister did, and you have to as well," she said firmly. Ashkit rolled his eyes.

"Fine," he growled. He sat down, curling his dark gray tail around his paws, glaring at the gathered cats. Cloudkit gave him an encouraging purr, earning her a glower in return.

"Once upon a time, there was a kitten named…." He frowned, as if trying to remember. "Melody. Melody lived on the streets with the rest of her family. Life was hard, but not impossible, and she loved her family enough to feel happy. Melody often snuck away from the rest of her family to explore the city. She went everywhere, in every alley, every abandoned house, every nook and cranny. On her explorations, she often met other cats, but Melody was a bit shy and thus didn't have many friends.

"One day, she came upon something strange. At first, she didn't know what it was; it was pale, with a strange, pointed mouth, pale pink skin, and giant eyes. It wasn't until she heard the birdsong that she realized it was a baby bird. It was dead; it had fallen from the nest, which was on the windowsill of an old abandoned house. She—"

"Hey, hang on!" Crowkit interrupted. "That's not your story! That's Mom's story! She's told us that story like a hundred times!"

Ashkit glowered at him. "No one said I had to make up my own story."

"Well, darling, you should make up your own story," Littlewing said gently. "Otherwise, it's not fair to the others."

Ashkit's ears flattened. "I don't want to."

"You can tell this story, but it won't be in the competition," Cloudkit offered. Ashkit glared at her.

"I don't want to be in the stupid competition anyway," he growled.

"I haven't heard this story, though," Cloudkit mewed. "Can you tell it anyway, Ashkit? Please?"

He blinked at her for a moment, then rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Anyway, she buried the baby bird as well as she could underneath some old rags and stuff. Then, she went to see the birds for herself. She climbed up to the windowsill to watch them. There were three little baby birds in the nest, and they all looked as weird as their dead sibling; featherless, wrinkled, and ugly. But their little chirps made her smile, and she saw them as little kits like herself.

"She came back every day to watch the little birds grow. She watched their mother and father feed them with little wriggling worms, heard them cry out for food, watched their parents loyally guard them day and night. She knew she unnerved the parents – robins obviously didn't like cats – but she made sure to keep her distance so that she wouldn't disturb them.

"The babies' feathers began growing in, and they were even cuter than before, all sort and fuzzy. One of them had a strange white marking under his wing, like a crescent moon, and he became her favorite of the group.

"Then, one day, the parents simply disappeared. Their chicks cried out with hunger, but the parents did not return. Melody didn't know where they had gone; had they been hit by a monster? Had they been eaten by cats or dogs? Had they gotten sick and died? Had they simply abandoned their chicks? It was impossible to know, but what Melody did know was that the chicks would die without food. So Melody decided that she would feed them herself.

"She traveled the city high and low every day, gathering as many worms and bugs as she could for them. But baby robins need a lot of food, and she simply couldn't bring them enough. Two of the chicks died, but her favorite, the white-marked chick, managed to survive. She named him Crescent. With only one robin to take care of, the burden was easier on her, and she managed to keep him alive.

"Moons passed, and eventually Crescent was old enough to fly. She took him in her jaws to the park, a place where there was grass and many trees, to study the flight of the other birds. She made the trip with him every day, until finally he took his first flight, soaring around the entire park. She felt as though she was flying with him, soaring above all of the troubles in the city.

"And eventually, Crescent didn't need her anymore, and he was old enough to fly by himself. She bid him farewell and went home, saddened that her only friend was leaving her.

"Her parents noticed that she was sad, and they wanted to make it up to her, so they went hunting early that morning, to find her something tender and juicy. They woke her up with a robin hanging from her father's jaws; Melody took one look at its white-marked wing, and knew that her parents had caught her dear Crescent.

"She was inconsolable for days, refusing to speak to anyone. She kept fleeing to the park, where she would look in vain for her friend, hoping that he was actually alive, that she had been wrong, that her parents had not caught him. But she never found him.

"She finally collapsed underneath a large oak tree, the same one from which he had flown for the first time. And there, underneath the crescent moon, she fell asleep.

"She dreamed that she was in a magnificent forest; she could hear birdsong echoing from the trees in all directions. And then, three robins chirped down at her from a branch above her head. She blinked up at them, and they flew down, and she realized that they were Crescent and his parents.

"His parents thanked her for taking care of their chicks as best they could, and Crescent thanked her as well. He explained that this was the afterlife; every robin or bird that made their first flight was able to fly right up into the stars after death. He thanked her for taking care of him, for giving him the time for that first flight of his. And Melody was warmed and comforted by his words, and she begged forgiveness for her parents' actions.

"Crescent told her not to worry, that he was glad to be flying with his parents again. And he told her that when she died, they would meet again, and he would fly alongside her in the strange forest.

"Melody awoke feeling warm and safe, and she returned home, to her parents' delight. And after that, she often thought of her friend, and remembered his words, and promised herself that someday she would join him in the forest."

Ashkit looked sullenly at his siblings, as if daring them to critique his story-telling; Cloudkit nuzzled his shoulder, then smiled at Littlewing.

"I like that story," she mewed. "Where did you hear it? It doesn't sound like a Clan story."

"A long time ago, my mother was in the 'Pound' of Twolegs," Littlewing answered. "She heard many amazing stories there; we were just kits at the time. She told them to us while we were very little."

"Now it's your turn," Ashkit meowed. "You have to tell us a story."

"Yeah, go ahead!" Featherkit purred. "I'm sure it will be good!"

Cloudkit smiled at them. "Okay." She thought a moment, pretending to select a story, but in her heart she knew there was only one story that she wanted to tell.

"Once upon a time, long long ago," she said quietly, "StarClan was trying to find names for all things. For they had a perfect world and perfect cats to live in it…but the cats needed to know what each piece of the world was called, to survive. And so, StarClan met, to name the water and the leaves and the earth and the animals and everything else in their new world. And soon, everything was named but a few things. And these things proved very hard for StarClan to name, so they sent a few warriors to look for inspiration.

"One such thing was the layer of ice that coated everything during leaf-bare; it was not quite snow, nor simply plain ice, so it needed a special name, but StarClan could not think of it.

"The warriors roamed far and wide, searching for their inspiration to name the strange ice. But they found nothing, until they happened upon a strange she-cat.

"When they first met her, she was completely covered in mud; she was almost unrecognizable as a cat. Her fur stuck out wildly, coated with leaves and twigs; it was obvious to the StarClan warriors that this was a wild, wild cat. And to their surprise, she addressed them.

"'Hello," the wild she-cat said, grinning at them. 'I've heard you two are looking for a bit of inspiration. Well, how about this; you give me some tests to pass, and if I can do it, you'll name whatever it is after me!'

"The StarClan cats were surprised by her offer, but intrigued; they had always liked challenges, and if she could perform them then they might finally have their name. But they were wary; this she-cat did not at all seem to fit their image of the icy coating, and they didn't want to misname it.

"'Let's have some fun, and humor her,' one of the warriors said, a tom named Tigerstrike. 'We will make sure the tests are too difficult for her to pass. She'll have to give up, and we will go on our way.'

"The other warriors agreed, and so they said to the she-cat, 'We will give you three tests, each proving that you have a trait for this thing we must name. And if you can pass all three of them, we shall name it after you.'

"The she-cat was incredibly pleased with this. 'What are these tests, then? Give them to me, right now!' she demanded. 'I can do them all before nightfall, I bet.'

"StarClan was amused by this. 'First, this ice is sneaky,' they said. 'It comes upon the land in the dead of night, freezing every branch or puddle or blade of grass. You must be sneaky as well. You must outwit…a fox.'

"If the she-cat was disturbed by this challenge, she didn't show it. Instead, the dirty she-cat gave them a wide grin.

"'Easy enough,' she purred to them, and they watched her spring into the forest. Quickly, the StarClan warriors hurried to watch.

"As it happened, there was indeed a fox in the forest, a fox with three small cubs. And so, this fox, this vixen, was very nervous; she was aware of every crackle in the forest, every sound, so protective was she of her cubs. The dirty she-cat found her and watched and learned, seeing how nervous the fox queen was. And she also knew that in order to feed three small cubs, she would have to hunt for herself.

"The dirty she-cat quickly devised a plan. To StarClan's surprise, she slunk away from the vixen, heading into the forest once more. She walked and walked, until she found an old badger's den. She entered it, and when she came out, she reeked of badgers. StarClan followed her as she headed back to the vixen's den. The vixen was ready to depart, and so she did, with the badger-smelling she-cat following her the whole way.

"The vixen was a good hunter, and soon carried a rabbit in her jaws. She was heading back to her den, only to find strange badger-scent in her way. Unnerved, the vixen turned to go another direction, only to find the scent blocking her way again. The vixen turned a third time, but the scent was there too.

"The vixen panicked, thinking that she was surrounded by the fierce creatures. With a yelp of fear, she dropped the rabbit and raced in the only direction without the badger-scent. She was so blinded by fear that she did not realize she was running towards the river, until it was too late. The earth, softened by rain and wind, crumbled beneath her paws, and she disappeared into the rushing river.

"The dirty she-cat picked up the vixen's rabbit, and brought it to the StarClan cats with a smile.

"'I have out-smarted the vixen, taking her prey and sending her tumbling into the river,' she purred. 'I have passed your first test.

"Without a doubt, StarClan was startled; they hadn't expected such a filthy cat to be so intelligent.

"'Don't worry,' said Tigerstrike, 'we still have two more tests for her to take. She-cat,' he said, nodding to her, 'that was a good trick. Here is the second task for you: this ice is extremely deadly. It creeps up on everything near the end of leaf-fall, and sometimes even the beginning of new-leaf. It kills unsuspecting plants and animals. You must be like this ice; deadly, unseen. You must kill ten things by nightfall.

"'And no insects, either,' said another StarClan cat quickly, seeing a loophole that the she-cat might use. She gave them a cheeky smile.

"'Understood,' she purred. 'Expect me back at nightfall.' And with that, she padded away.

"The she-cat began to hunt, and truly she was a magnificent hunter; she managed to catch a rabbit and a mouse in minutes, followed by a vole soon after. But it was soon apparent that she would not be able to catch ten things in time; by the time the sun was beginning to set in the sky, she had only caught six pieces of prey.

"The she-cat was worried now, but she was cunning; a plan for three easy kills entered her head, and she trotted back to the vixen's den. To her surprise, the vixen was there, wet and unhappy, but alive. She was sleeping in the entrance to where her cubs mewled and fought one another.

"Silently, the she-cat approached, before slashing at the vixen's muzzle. The vixen awoke, the badger scent still in her nose; she let out a bark of fury, charging at the she-cat.

"A monumental battle erupted, lasting for hours, almost until nightfall. The vixen was fast, but the she-cat was faster; the she-cat was strong, but the vixen was stronger. However, the vixen was already tired from her battle in the river, and finally the she-cat succeeded in killing her. Seeing that her time was almost up, the she-cat grabbed the vixen in her jaws, and slowly dragged her back to the StarClan cats.

"'I have killed this fox,' she said boldly, 'and I have completed your mission.'

"'We watched you hunt,' one of the StarClan warriors said. 'We saw you kill six pieces of prey, and this vixen as well. But that is only seven deaths. What about the other three? You have failed this test.'

"'At this, the she-cat smiled. 'No, I have not,' she said. 'Those three cubs are still alive, but they are too small to live without their mother's help. They cannot hunt for themselves. They will die within days. That brings my total kills to ten, for even though the cubs are not yet dead, I have sealed their fates.'

"StarClan was astonished; there was no denying that the fox cubs would die. Tigerstrike lashed his tail. 'We still have one more test for you,' he growled, and then smiled. 'There is one last thing that this ice is, besides sneaky and deadly. It is beautiful. And for it to be named for you, you must be beautiful as well.'

"StarClan purred at his words, for surely such a wild, fierce, dirty cat could not be beautiful. But to their surprise, the she-cat smiled.

"'You have to judge me for yourselves,' she said, 'for I will not be so vain as to declare myself beautiful.' She flicked her tail to them, and headed for the river where the vixen had nearly drowned before. And she went to the bank and slipped into the river, and for a moment she disappeared entirely from view. One StarClan warrior moved to leap into the river after her, fearing that she had drowned, but to their surprise a crisp white head appeared.

"A beautiful white she-cat padded out of the river, shaking her fur; it wasn't until StarClan saw a speck of mud still clinging to her fur that they realized this was the she-cat they had challenged. She was perfect, with gleaming green eyes, soft, silky fur, and more importantly, she was just as white as their ice.

"She gave them a smile, then purred, 'Do I pass this challenge as well?' and unanimously StarClan agreed.

"'You have passed our three challenges,' Tigerstrike said, and then dipped his broad head to her. 'What is your name, so that we might name our ice after you?'

"The she-cat smiled, and replied, 'My name is Frost.' And so, from that day forward, the ice that creeps forward silently, kills in the cold of leaf-bare, and is beautiful despite its danger, has been known as frost."

Cloudkit finished the story, then blinked slowly at her siblings; they were all silent, staring at her. Then, Featherkit squeaked,

"Cloudkit's story was the best!"

Crowkit nodded quickly, Littlewing purred her agreement, and even sullen Ashkit acknowledged it with the flick of his tail.

Cloudkit beamed at them, filled with pride, then laughed quietly. "I'd like to win the competition, really," she purred, "but that wasn't really my story. I heard it from someone else."

The kits frowned, then looked to Featherkit.

"Your story was definitely the best, then," Crowkit meowed. Featherkit flushed.

"I didn't make up mine either," she confessed. "I heard it from Mossflower. I didn't know we couldn't use someone else's story."

"But…Ashkit's wasn't his story either," Crowkit said slowly. "So that means…my story was the best!" He brightened, and, remembering Crowkit's 'story', Cloudkit laughed.

"I guess yours was the best," she purred, and Crowkit beamed with pride as his mother licked his head.

. . .

"Snowhawk?" she asked timidly, creeping forwards. The white tom didn't move, and she swallowed, realizing she probably hadn't been loud enough for him to feel her voice-rumbled.

"Snowhawk?" she called again, more loudly this time; he turned towards her with curious blue eyes, his gaze softening as he saw it was her.

"Hello, Cloudkit," he purred. "Come to see Honeykit? She's asleep right now, I'm afraid." He flicked his tail to the little cream kit, who was ill with whitecough. Cloudkit glanced at her, ears flattening slightly – she knew whitecough could become greencough, but Snowhawk had assured her that she would be fine – then shook her head.

"No, Father," she said quietly. Snowhawk wasn't truly her father, but she had always felt that he should have been; if he hadn't been a medicine cat, he would have been her mother's mate, without a doubt.

"I just wanted to see you."

Snowhawk blinked at her slowly. "What's wrong, Cloudkit?" he asked gently, touching her flank with his tail; it was partially a comforting gesture, partially so that he could feel her voice-rumbles better; he was deaf.

"I…Littlewing's kits and I were telling stories," she said slowly, "and I…told the frost story. The one that you told me. The one that you told Mother."

Snowhawk's gaze softened; he pulled her closer to him, and licked her head gently. "Did they like it?"

She smiled, despite the sadness weighing down her heart as she drew in the smell of his fur. For a moment, she imagined that he really was her father, and that her mother, the one she had never knew, the one that had died kitting, was waiting just outside the den. "Yeah," she sniffled into his fur. "I t-told it just the way you told it to me…." Her throat felt as though it was closing up, and she pressing her muzzle harder into his fur. He licked her head again.

"She was wonderful, Cloudkit. Just know that. She was the most amazing cat I ever knew."

She turned to blink up at him with her copper-colored eyes. "Was she like the Frost in the story?"

He laughed quietly, nuzzling her; his whiskers tickled her ear. "Even better."

**AN: My AN's are really rambley, sorry. Anyway, in Snatched I mentioned somewhere that Snowhawk did tell Frostflight about the story of frost, we just weren't there to see it, and that he would eventually tell someone else. That someone else is obviously our lil Cloudkit, the darling girl.**

**Frost is sort of like the classic folk hero, that's basically perfect and can do anythinggggg in the wuuurld. Like…like Superman. Or Paull Bunyan. Or that guy who hammered against the machine and won and then died.**

**If you all recall, there was a cream cat who helped Reedrush escape the Pound. That was Littlewing's mother. That was about three or four years ago, so Littlewing was her daughter. Small world, no?**


	10. 9 Flash

**AN: I'll admit, I can't for the life of me remember these themes, so I have to recheck the page each time. And, keep in mind that I started this one-shot thing even before Shattered. So, when I saw this theme, I immediately knew who fit it best.**

**Trying this one in a bit of a different style, which I think fits her mental state, later on.**

**To answer Crowstorm's question, some of these I made up on the fly (the first one-shot, and I think the second and third too) but some of them take a bit of planning. Most of the myths that I tell, in any story, take a bit of planning too.**

**For those that didn't remember, Littlewing was the queen of Ruin's Clan, and his mate; she had four kits from him, Crowkit, Honeykit, Ashkit, and Featherkit. Cloudkit was Frostflight's daughter; Littlewing adopted her after Frostflight died.**

**9. Flash**

She yawned slowly, then sneezed as fur tickled her nose; she opened her eyes to find that she had shifted in her sleep, moving to press her nose into her son's fur. She blinked into his blue-gray fur, so much like his father's, and smiled.

Then, thinking of his father, her head rose and she glanced around; he was nowhere to be seen, or at least not in their alley. She frowned, then yawned slowly; he was probably just hunting for them. Oftentimes he would disappear in the morning, but she knew he would always come back. He would never leave them, not so long as he loved her and cared for his son.

She yawned again, and then glanced down at her son with a smile; he looked so small, curled up against her belly, even though she knew that by her old Kalan standards he would begin training in only a few moons.

Sorrow fluttered in her heart at the thought of the Kalan; she still missed them dearly, and the pain of losing them was still a gnawing ache in her stomach. But, there was no helping it; the Kalan had splintered into many smaller groups, usually pairs, each going their own way.

There was a noise at the end of the alley, and she turned with a smile, seeing her mate's familiar blue-gray fur. If only the Kalan could see her now, with this powerful tom! When she had been showing the first signs that she was with kits, there had been much guessing as to which Kalan tom was the father, but she had simply smiled to herself; none of the Kalan cats would have guessed that this rogue was who the gentle she-cat had fallen for.

"Good morning," she purred; his amber eyes glimmered down at her, and he dropped a mouse at her paws.

"Morning," he growled, before glancing down at their son; the ghost of a smile flitted over his muzzle, and she let out a quiet purr; most of the time, he looked sad and solemn, but even he could not remain somber when looking at the product of their love.

Their son stirred at the sound of his father's voice; slowly, his amber eyes opened, the exact same as his father. She let out a small purr, nuzzling him, and he let out a quiet squeak.

"Your father has brought us breakfast," she mewed, nudging the mouse towards him. He took a sleepy bite, eyes slightly unfocused as he chewed, before letting out a mewling yawn and stretching.

"No one bothered you, Brightflash?" her mate rumbled. She shook her head.

"It was all quiet here, I think. I didn't even notice you leaving." She smiled at him, and then took a bite of the mouse as her son continued to chew.

"How far do you think we'll get today?" she asked curiously, blinking up at him. He gave a shrug of his dark shoulders.

"It just depends on how early we start," he answered. "I've done some scouting of the city, to find the best path through. We might be able to get out by nightfall, if we hurry."

Brightflash nodded, and allowed her son to gulp down the rest of the mouse, before she rose to her paws. "We should leave now, then. I'd like to get through this entire place before long." She shivered; the city was so different from the lake where she had grown up. The air, the sky, the ground, everything felt different, uncomfortable, frightening. She was lucky that her mate had been living her for so long; he knew almost every part of the city.

"Come on, Thistle," she purred down to her son. "We've got a long journey ahead of us today." She bent down to pick him up, but her mate flicked his tail over her flank sharply. She glanced at him, confused.

"He can walk today, it won't hurt him," he growled. "It will make him stronger, and he'll need that strength once we're in the wilderness."

She hesitated, then nodded. "Right. You don't mind, do you, honey?"

Thistle bounced to his paws, smiling up at her. "No way, Momma! I'm going to explore everything!"

Brightflash glanced at her mate, amused, but he wasn't paying attention; he was already staring out the alley, probably plotting their course.

"Let's go."

. . .

Thistle proved to live up to his promise; the little kit stuck his nose into everything they passed, whether it be rags, Twoleg trash, or the scents where other cats had gone. Brightflash felt as if she was spending the entire day chasing after him to keep him out of trouble, but she didn't mind. It was goo d to see him feeling playful and happy, and she was glad that they were finally on their way; they had been in the city for many moons now, waiting until Thistle was big enough to be moved, big enough to survive in the wilderness.

Every breath of city air seemed to sting her nose, and Brightflash found herself longing for the lake, but there wasn't enough prey there to go around anymore. If she wanted to live somewhere outside of the city, she would have to find a new home for herself and her little family.

By the time nightfall drew around, they were nearly on the border between the city and the wild; there was only a long, wide Thunderpath for them to follow. Brightflash felt her heart leap in her chest; the forest beyond looked dazzling, even from so far away.

"Come on!" she purred, breaking into a run, loping down the side of the Thunderpath; she heard the pawsteps of her mate and Thistle following her, before her mate let out a growl.

"Wait," he ordered, and she stopped, glancing at him over her shoulder. His eyes were narrowed suspiciously, and his mouth was open. Copying him, she blinked in surprise as the scent of cats – many cats, from the smell of it – wafted into her waiting mouth.

"They must live in the forest," he said slowly.

"Maybe we can join them?" she wondered, but he shook his head.

"There's too many of them. I doubt they'd welcome in any outsiders."

Her heart fell, and her ears flattened; she had been hoping to live in the forest with her family, safe from any Twolegs or enemies. Then, she blinked, glancing over the Thunderpath to the other side. She opened her mouth, straining to catch any scents.

"Over there, that looks like we might be able to live there," she meowed, peering through the growing darkness as monsters rushed past. "I can't smell anyone, can you?"

He scented for a moment, then shook his head. "No, but it doesn't smell like forest. It smells like…mud."

She purred, nudging him almost playfully. "Relax, Bullet. I practically grew up in mud. At any rate, we need a place to spend the night." She glanced up at the sky; the first stars were already beginning to shine in the sky.

He nodded slowly. "Fine." He took a step forwards, before shrinking back as a monster roared past.

"I'll go over first," he shouted, over the roar of a second monster. "I'll motion for you when it's safe. Let Thistle go first, then you."

Her pelt prickled nervously at the thought of her little kit trying to make it over himself, but Bullet's amber eyes were hard; she knew that he only wanted Thistle to grow up strong, like he had, and so she nodded.

Bullet crouched on the edge of the Thunderpath, ears pricked; he glanced in both directions, before waiting for another monster to rush past. Just as it did, he darted forwards; Brightflash felt as if her heart was in her mouth, as a monster tore over the spot where he had been moments ago.

He reached the other side, then glanced around again; urgently, he flicked his tail, and Brightflash nosed Thistle forwards.

"As fast as you can," she hissed in his ear, and the blue-gray kit stumbled forwards, charging over the Thunderpath as quickly as he could. But the kit was tired from the day's adventures, and she saw him slowing as he neared the middle of the Thunderpath; then, to her horror, she saw the glaring eyes of a monster rushing right towards him, with no signs of stopping.

Before she quite knew what was happening, she was propelling herself forwards, streaking towards her son with all of the speed of her ancestors. She grabbed him in her jaws, as the light of the monster grew nearer and nearer, and flung him as far as he could. She saw him land out of harm's way, saw his father's eyes wide and his mouth opened in a cry. She moved forwards, trying to run, but the light was bearing down on her and she knew she wasn't fast enough to escape the-

_Flash_

The pain shot through her like

Lightning through her body and

She could feel herself flying and

She crashed onto the hard surface of the Thunderpath and

Pain

Pain

Pain

_Let it stop let it stop let it_

_Fade to black._

Images whirled around her mind

Thistle's shining face

Bullet's rare smile

Sunlight dancing over the lake

Scents filled her

Ashstir's ashy scent

A mouse, freshly caught

Her mother's milky fur

They flew by

Jumbled

Was that the word?

Jumbled?

She didn't—

She couldn't—

It was all—

_Flash_

_Flash _

_FlashFlashFlashFlash_

"Brightflash!"

Someone dragging her

Frantic voices in her ear

"Momma!"

"Brightflash!"

She didn't understand

Momma?

What was Momma?

Her brain slowly answered,

_Mother._

But she wasn't

She wasn't a

Could she be a mother?

"Brightflash! Stay with me!"

Brightflash?

Who was…?

_Fade to black_

The images were gone

The scents were gone

Nothing remained

She was a blank slate

All that she could see

All that she could remember

All that she knew was the pain

And the

_Flash_

**AN: Poor girl. But that gives you some idea of her state of mind when she wakes up again, wiped clean. And why Bullet eventually left, despite having a son to take care of; he couldn't bear looking at his mate, and having her look back without a trace of recognition. **

**The flash was the headlights, if that wasn't clear. The short of shattered style probably made that confused. xD**

**Ususally "fade to black" or "FTB" is for role-play, when you kind of, ah, leave things to the imagination while kitties are bumping uglies or giving birth. But in this case, it's more her falling back into unconsciousness. The italics sort of played weirdly in here too, more for emphasis rather than her being unconscious, probably because her brain is so darn scrambled. **


	11. 10 Puzzling Words

**AN: I swear, Shimmertail, this is almost starting to get creepy. It's like you were reading my mind when I was thinking about who to do for this chapter right after I finished Flash. I'm scared. D:**

**Finally made it 1/10 of the way through, though. That only took like, what, a year? I'm making good time.**

**10. Puzzling Words**

_What is sought after by many, found by a few, and satisfies none?_

She smiled to herself; that was one of her favorite riddles, by far. Not for just one reason, of course; there were too many delicious riddles out there to have one be her favorite for just a single reason. The most obvious reason would be that the riddle was a parting gift from her mother, on her deathnest; a love of riddling was genetic, it would seem. She sometimes wondered if her father had liked them too; him, she had never met.

The other reason for her liking of the riddle was how true the answer was; it always brought a smile to her face, for as delicious as riddles were, they often were not…well, continuing that thought would give away the answer, now wouldn't it?

She yawned, resting her head on her dark gray paws, listening to the babbling of the nearby waterfall; the Twolegs that had originally owned his nest had moved, but the waterfall remained behind, and for that she was glad. It gave the Twoleg nest an almost peaceful air, despite the sounds of monsters and the barking of dogs. It was pleasant to think that although this was by no means a safe Twolegplace, there were still some safe parts.

She rubbed one paw over the grass, then rolled onto her back rather suddenly; she wasn't quite sure why she did so. She was hardly a kitten anymore, no; by any reckoning, she was an old cat, and that was becoming increasingly obvious to her; her movements were becoming slower, more stiff, and she wasn't as fast as she used to be. She wasn't to the point where she had to gum her prey to death, but surely that wasn't too far away. She had what, a year left? Perhaps two if she was cautious, and indeed caution was the only reason she had survived long enough to travel so far.

And yet that traveling had stopped, for some reason. She was still here, in this Twolegplace, and she no longer had the urge to roam. But why? There was little holding her here. Buttercup was pleasant enough, but by no means bright company, she rarely saw Shaw, and the host of other cats in this Twolegplace that she had come to know were mostly boring and dull. The power struggle that had developed after Ruin's death was slightly interesting – if a little dangerous – but even that wasn't a reason to tie her here.

It was possible that her age was what was holding her back, but even then she had never let it stop her before; she had wandered over this earth for years and years without thinking to stop for more than a moon or so….

It was indeed puzzling, perhaps a greater riddle than she had ever known. But, like all riddles, surely there was some sort of solution to it. She frowned to herself, trying to think, stretching her mind back over all that she had experienced in this Twolegplace, this city.

And then she remembered.

"_Are…are you the one that tells riddles?"_

_She had blinked down at the little white kit, mystified. This kit smelled like a kittypet…so why on Earth was she here on the streets?_

"_I am," she had said cautiously. The kit had looked nervous._

"_Buttercup says they're really interesting…and Hedge says they're really hard," she mewed. "I need to hear them."_

_She had been even more confused than before. "What for?" She had looked around nervously, her tail twitching. "You should be back with your Twolegs, not here. It's dangerous. Come on." She had reached down to nudge the kit, but the white kit flinched away from her touch._

"_Please," she whimpered, "I need help. Please."_

_Her gaze gentled, and she felt a stirring of pity for the helpless scrap of fur. "I'll help you, I promise, but I would be much more comfortable if we were somewhere safer. Where do you live?"_

_The kit flicked her tail, towards the district where Buttercup, Hedge, and many other kittypets lived._

"_Well, come on then, let's go there. We can talk in your yard, alright?"_

_The kit eyed her with caution. "You aren't just going to take me there and leave, are you?"_

"_Of course not."_

That had been her first meeting with little Angel…it seemed like such a long time ago now. And, perhaps, it really was a long time ago; her sense of time was beginning to slip, it would seem. Even then, the white kit's violet-blue gaze had seemed oddly…puzzling.

_They had made it back to Angel's home quickly; all that she had learned of the kit was her name, not the reason for her strange desire for her riddles, or anything else of the sort._

"_Now, this is your nest, correct?"_

_Angel nodded. "It is…please don't leave! I'll follow you if you do!"_

"_I told you, kit, I'm not going to desert you," she said gently. "You followed me for a reason; it's only right that I find it out. Now, let's have a proper meeting, won't we? My name is Wander, and as you said I am the one that tells the riddles; it's a fairly common practice with rogues, but I suppose I have a fascination with them that is a little abnormal."_

_Angel nodded slowly. "That's why I need your help. Please, tell me a riddle."_

_She was puzzled, then shrugged; what harm could it do?_

"_I soar above all others," she meowed, "even above the birds. The wind is my ally; I carry life in my belly. What am I?"_

_Angel was quiet for a long moment; Wander thought she might have given up, when she finally glanced up at the sky, and smiled. "A cloud."_

_She let out a low purr. "Yes, good! Buttercup didn't understand that one. She's a bit slow…good-hearted, but slow. Hedge managed that one, though. Let's see how you handle another, shall we?"_

_And so it had gone, riddle after riddle; at first little Angel answered them with ease, but gradually Wander made them more difficult, over periods of time. They struck up a pattern of visitation; every few days Wander would stop by to see if Angel had the answer to her latest riddle; if she did, then they would continue until Angel was stumped once more and Wander departed._

_And then, finally, Wander offered Angel her favorite riddle of all._

"_What is sought after by many, found by a few, and satisfies none?"_

_And Angel had not known. It took three visits from Wander before the kit finally admitted that she did not know. Wander had let out a low, rumbling purr._

"_I can't tell you the answer to that, of course," she meowed. "You'll have to figure it out for yourself…but I think I've taught you most of what I know. Is that enough for you?"_

_To her surprise, Angel's face crumpled with sadness. She sniffled loudly. Taken aback, Wander had blinked anxiously, not knowing what to do._

"_If I can't solve that riddle, then how can I solve my own?" she had whimpered. Wander had touched her flank._

"_What riddle of your own?" she had asked. "Perhaps I can help you."_

_Angel looked down at her paws. "I don't think anyone can."_

She yawned slowly, then stretched, glancing up at the sky; the sun was already beginning to set. How could she waste so much time lying around? If she indeed only had a few years left, lounging about wasn't quite the way to spend them. She sighed softly, and then rolled back onto her side, letting the sound of the waterfall soothe her old, tired ears.

_It had taken Wander many more visits before Angel had finally confessed her plight, and even Wander had been surprised by the truth of it. The poor kit was haunted by visions of death, forced to experience it whenever certain cats died. She could never remember the deaths later, but the pain and fear haunted her even while she was awake._

_Quite a riddle indeed._

_Unfortunately, it was not one that Wander had known the answer to, which was a first for her. It was a puzzle, a conundrum, a very strange riddle. Perhaps it was even unsolvable; she did not know. But one thing was for certain. The life of a kittypet was not for Angel. She had a bigger destiny in store for her._

_And that destiny had come on the paws of a young, deaf tom._

Wander smiled as she remembered him, proud little Snowpaw; his blue eyes had blazed with starlight when they had first met. StarClan whispered in his ear, she had known that, it had been obvious. She had encountered Clan cats before in her time as a wandering rogue.

And she knew that Angel belonged with them. And so she had convinced Angel – as well as another kit, who was oddly named Kit, to go with her, so that she would not feel so alone – to join young Snowpaw and his friends. And she had thought that would be the end of their friendship.

But it had not been so. There had been a great battle, one that she had been enlisted in by a clever young tom named Lune. A grisly battle, to be certain, but it had given her and Angel the time to meet again. And then there had been another meeting, one that even Wander had not suspected, this time with little Angel in the company of Lune, bent on some mission concerning the Pride.

Wander had sheltered them, of course, given them a place to stay where they would be safe from the power vacuum created by Ruin's death. And she had bade them farewell again, when their path led them out of the city.

"_I know the answer now," Angel had said with a smile; she was still young, and looked tiny compared to Lune, but there was a new sparkle of confidence and power in her eyes._

"_The answer?" Wander had asked, then blinked, remembering both her favorite riddle and Angel's unfortunate one. "The answer to which riddle?"_

_Angel had smiled. "Both of them." And she had whispered the answers in Wander's ear, and Wander had purred with delight, for surely little Angel, her protégé, had surpassed her tutor._

Perhaps that was the real reason, then; perhaps that was the real reason that Wander had stopped wandering. She rested her head on her paws once more, thinking.

Perhaps the reason she no longer wandered was that she knew no matter how far she went, there would always be a cat that would walk farther, and know more than she ever could. Perhaps the reason she stopped wandering was that she had trained her own little successor, one that had inherited her own fierce love of riddles. For that was what Angel was now, a new Wander, and with Lune at her sight and her mission at paw she would go farther than Wander ever had, and hear of riddles that Wander could never hope to solve.

It wasn't such a bad thing, really; it was almost a weight off of her shoulders now, she could see that. It was like an endless circle; she had surpassed her mother, and Angel had surpassed her. It was simply how life went, and she was glad to be a part of it, glad to have helped set little Angel's paws on her new path.

Slowly, Wander rose to her paws, then shivered; the breeze was chilling against her short gray fur. She glanced towards the Twoleg nest, wondering what sorts of new Twolegs lived there; they had kept their waterfall, so they couldn't be all bad. And she smiled to herself, thinking that perhaps it was time for an old cat to accept her status. Perhaps it was time that she retired, so to speak. Perhaps it was time that she selected her new status, and perhaps it was time that these new Twolegs became _her _Twolegs.

Slowly, she began padding towards the back door; it was clear, and she could peer into it; she knew these new Twolegs had a young kit, not very old at all. She had never seen the father Twoleg, but the Twoleg queen herself was a pretty thing. She could fit in nicely with them.

Gently, she put her paw on the glass, then hesitated; riddles and wandering had always gone paw-in-paw for her. She could never have one without the other. And she smiled a sad smile, and whispered to the wind,

"_What is sought after by many, found by a few, and satisfies none?"_

"_The answer to a riddle."_

**AN: The new Twolegs are the same ones that adopted Snowhawk and Lightningstar from the Shelter. The Twoleg kit is a little older now, perhaps a bit better suited for a cat…and the mom won't mind an elderly cat that is laid-back and not at all messy. **

**It's about time I wrote about an elder. I don't do it very often.**


	12. 11 Ill

**AN: I finished the Chilled chapter a bit early, and decided that I needed something else to do to soak up some time so I didn't update too suddenly. So I decided to flesh out a character that we learned of quite recently. So enjoy this double update, of both these one-shots and Chilled!  
**

**11. Ill**

She crouched, wiggling her tail from side to side. The silver-gray apprentice opposite of her grinned widely.

"Come on, Snowkit, make a move," the apprentice purred. Snowkit let out a fierce growl.

"You're the one that said a good warrior never makes the first move, Streampaw," she mewed, and the apprentice let out a purr.

"You're right, I did. But I'm not going to move first either, and we're going to be here all day, otherwise!" she laughed.

"I'll end the stalemate!" a third voice yowled; a ginger kit bumbled into Snowkit, sending her sprawling.

"Shrewkit! You're supposed to be on my side!" she yowled, scrambling to her paws to see Streampaw laughing at her.

"But Streampaw's prettier than you are," Shrewkit laughed, sticking his tongue at her. Snowkit yowled, springing forward with her paws outstretched. Streampaw simply laughed, sitting down and watching the two siblings grappling with one another.

"You guys are making my head hurt!" a loud voice complained. Shrewkit glanced over towards the source, a small ginger-and-white kit, and Snowkit took the opportunity to nip his ear.

"Ow!" Shrewkit yelped, pushing her away. Snowkit tumbled back, landing on her side; she stayed there for a moment, winded.

"Oh, Swankit, you can join in too," Streampaw offered, blinking at the ginger-and-white kit. "I wouldn't want to leave you feeling left out."

"Swankit's no fun," Shrewkit complained, and Snowkit nodded in agreement.

"No fun at all."

Swankit gave both of them a fierce glare. "I'm not any fun because your games are stupid! We aren't going to be warriors for a long time yet. There's no reason to start training."

"We're only playing," Shrewkit mewed.

"Speak for yourself. I'm training to become a warrior!" Snowkit declared boldly. "I'm going to be the fastest apprentice in PeakClan to become a warrior."

Swankit rolled her blue eyes. "You're delusional. If you're going to fight each other and yowl all the time, why not do it somewhere else?"

Snowkit's ears flattened. "We're not allowed to leave the Peak, duh, or we would go somewhere else."

"There's plenty of room in the forest. Try that," Swankit snapped. Snowkit and Shrewkit glanced at Streampaw, who shrugged.

"If Iceblossom's okay with that, we can try," she meowed. "There's a little clearing that would be perfect, actually."

"What about badgers? And foxes?" Shrewkit asked, a bit of nervousness in his golden eyes. Streampaw rolled her own amber eyes at him.

"They can't climb up the Peak. You guys will be perfectly safe. Hang on." She padded into the nursery; Snowkit and Shrewkit both watched her disappear into the den entrance, before they glanced at one another.

"Are you really training to become a warrior?" Shrewkit asked. Snowkit nodded, puffing out her chest with pride.

"Streampaw's been showing me some cool moves, yeah. I'll be a warrior in no time!" she boasted. "Stonestar will be totally impressed with me."

Shrewkit smiled at her. "Me too. We can be warriors together, and leave Swankit behind because she's such a mouse-brain!" The two siblings giggled, and Streampaw emerged from the nursery with a smile.

"Iceblossom says it's fine, so long as I'm there to watch you two," she said. "Sure you don't want to come, Swankit?"

Swankit fixed them both with her icy gaze, then snorted, vanishing into the nursery's sandy entrance. Streampaw shrugged, flicking her tail to the two kits. "Let's go."

. . .

"Nice move, Snowkit!" Streampaw purred. "You almost had me that time."

Snowkit glowed from the praise, sitting up and dusting her white coat off. It had been nearly a moon since she and Shrewkit had gone out with Streampaw to train in the sandy clearing near camp; since then it had become a regular thing; every few days, Streampaw would take them out for a bit of training.

_Too bad Shrewkit didn't come, _she thought, feeling a bit sad; her brother hadn't decided to come the last few times. He'd grown bored with the training; to him, it had always been a game, despite what he had originally said, and he had simply moved on to a better game.

_But I'm not like him. This isn't a game for me, _she thought with determination. _I'm going to become the best warrior ever!_

Streampaw coughed quietly, and Snowkit's ears pricked. "Are you okay?"

Streampaw nodded quickly. "Yeah, I'm fine. I've just got a little bit of a cough…it's nothing." She crouched, her tail twitching playfully. "Come at me again."

Snowkit smiled, eager to oblige, and charged forward; she feinted to the left before swiping playfully at Streampaw's right. As a kit, she was slower than the apprentice, so she wasn't surprised that Streampaw intercepted her blow with one of her own; the silver-gray apprentice's paw smacked Snowkit's shoulder, but Snowkit turned and clamped down on Streampaw's paw with her jaws.

The apprentice let out a yelp of pain, and Snowkit's eyes widened as she tasted blood. She quickly released Streampaw, and the apprentice took a step back, licking her paw anxiously.

"Are you okay? I'm sorry! I didn't mean to bite you so hard," Snowkit said nervously. Streampaw shot her a quick smile, before continuing to lick it.

"It's okay, I know you didn't mean to...it hurts, though." She stopped licking, and immediately blood bubbled to the surface of the wound. She winced.

"Looks like it's kind of deep. Maybe you should have Blackmoon look at it?"

Streampaw's ears flattened. "I don't want to, um, bother him," she mumbled. "It'll be fine."

"Are you sure? Why don't you let him check it?"

"Because I don't want to, okay?" Streampaw snapped. Snowkit shrank back, and the apprentice's amber eyes gentled. "I don't like going to Blackmoon for things…it feels weird to me, because my mom was the old medicine cat," the tabby said quietly. "I think everyone was always expecting me to become a medicine cat, instead of Birdpaw…it's in my blood, you know? And…I know the Clan kind of distrusts me now. Stonestar has brought us back to the warrior code, which is good, but it means they look on what my parents did that much more harshly. So they look at me harshly, too…."

Snowkit felt a pang of sympathy. "Blackmoon's pretty nice. I'm sure he won't mind," she mewed. Streampaw shrugged.

"Either way, I guess we're done for today," she said, then flicked her tail. "Come on, it's almost sun-high."

Snowkit followed the silver she-cat back to camp; she started to follow her to the medicine den, only to hear Swankit hissing at her.

"Come on, Mom wants us," Swankit meowed, with a sharp flick of her tail; her fur was shiny and sleek, Snowkit noticed. Swankit was always a careful groomer, but her fur had her mother's characteristic gleam to it.

"Why was she grooming you?" Snowkit asked cautiously, following her sister into the nursery, only to let out a yelp of surprise as Iceblossom grabbed her. She wiggled in her mother's grasp, trying to get away, but Iceblossom had experience and size on her side; she groomed Snowkit carefully, flattening her fur and making it shimmer.

"Moooom!" Snowkit complained, scrambling out of Iceblossom's grasp as her mother finished. "What was that about?" She reached to touch her chest with her paw.

"Don't!" Iceblossom said sharply. "You have to look good. Shrewkit, I see that." She glanced at her son, who had been about to roll in the dusty entrance of the den; he looked at her sheepishly, his ears flattened.

"What do we have to look good for? It's not like anyone cares," he moaned. "My fur feels all weird."

"You're just not used to being clean," Swankit said smugly.

Snowkit blinked, confused, only for her ears to swivel as she heard Stonestar's voice; the gray leader was calling the Clan together. Snowkit's eyes widened as things began to make sense to her, but before she could say anything, Iceblossom was herding them towards the entrance.

"Be good, you three," she whispered. "Keep your chins up. Look Stonestar in the eyes. Be proud, because I am very proud of the three of you."

"Are we going to—" Snowkit's question was broken as her mother nudged her quickly towards the center of camp; Iceblossom took a step back, her blue eyes glinting as she looked down at her kits.

"I'm very proud of you," she said again, more quietly, and Snowkit felt warmed by the light in Iceblossom's eyes; the white she-cat quickly padded away to sit next to her mate; Volewhisker gave his kits a nod, his eyes glowing. The ginger tom seemed almost as excited as they were.

"What's going on?" Shrewkit whispered, as Stonestar blinked down at the three of them.

"We're becoming apprentices," Snowkit whispered back, her eyes shining eagerly.

"Shut up, he's going to start speaking!" Swankit hissed.

Stonestar flicked his tail, and the voices of the Clan quieted; his yellow gaze was fixed firmly on the three kits.

"These three kits have reached the age of six moons, and thus it is time for them to be apprenticed. From this day forward, until the three of you earn your warrior names, you will be known as Snowpaw, Shrewpaw, and Swanpaw. I ask StarClan to watch over you and guide you until you find in your paws the strength and courage of true warriors."

His gaze flicked over the Clan; Snowpaw turned, trying to figure out who her new mentor was going to be.

_Northstar doesn't have a mentor…maybe him? _She wondered, her heart fluttering with excitement as she met the white tom's golden gaze; his expression didn't change, but she found herself quickly looking away.

"Sleekfoot, you are ready to take on an apprentice. You have received excellent training from Tawnyfrost, and you have shown yourself to be both fierce and brave. You will be mentor of Snowpaw, and I trust that you will pass on all you know to her."

Snowpaw's eyes widened and she stood as the pretty blue-gray she-cat padded forwards; her pelt was almost as sleek and shiny as Snowpaw's own. Gently, they touched noses, and Snowpaw felt a shiver of anticipation run through her fur. She was barely listening as Shrewpaw was given to Hawktalon, one of Volewhisker's old friends, and Swanpaw was given to Sparrowfeather. She gazed up at her mentor, anticipation pounding in her paws.

_I will be the very best!_

. . .

"Snowpaw, you miss-stepped again." Sleekfoot's voice was soft, but slightly sharp as she blinked at her apprentice; Snowpaw's ears flattened.

"Sorry, I know," she mewed anxiously. "I'm just really…tired." She coughed quietly.

Sleekfoot sighed. "I gave you the day off yesterday because you were feeling tired."

Snowpaw's ears flattened miserably. "I know," she mumbled. "I'm sorry, Sleekfoot."

"Have you asked Blackmoon about your cough?"

She nodded. "He said it was probably nothing, just a bug that was floating around…Streampaw's been coughing recently too. He gave me something for it, but it hasn't helped much."

Sleekfoot nuzzled her apprentice's side. "Well…just take the rest of today off too. Hopefully you'll feel better."

Snowpaw's eyes widened; two wasted days in a row? "No, Sleekfoot, I'll do better," she promised, her voice breaking off to a new wave of coughs. Sleekfoot blinked down at her.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of; I promise, I'm not angry. You can afford the rest; you're advanced for an apprentice your age, probably because of all the 'playing' you did with Streampaw. It's okay."

Snowpaw stared down at her paws, and nodding; she felt Sleekfoot touched her flank with her tail.

"Come on. Some prey in your belly will make you feel better."

Snowpaw allowed herself to be led by her mentor back up the Peak; she coughed again several times, and her paws felt as heavy as stones. When they reached the top, she politely declined eating with Sleekfoot, retiring instead to the apprentice den.

_What's wrong with me? _She wondered tiredly. _I don't feel good at all….Blackmoon said it was probably nothing, though…._

"Snowpaw?"

She looked up, smiling as she saw her friend Streampaw in the entrance of the den; her face fell as she saw how tired the silver apprentice looked.

"Are you okay?" Snowpaw asked. Streampaw shrugged.

"It looks like we've both got the same bug, I guess; you're feeling tired and sluggish too, right?" she mewed, and Snowpaw nodded. "My mentor gave me the day off too." Streampaw sat down in her nest. "That's fine with me, though. I missed a mouse by a fox-length today, and it was a really sluggish one...my mentor was so mad…." She sighed softly, then gave Snowpaw a smile. "Oh well. We'll get better soon."

"Before the Gathering, hopefully," Snowpaw said anxiously. "I want to go with Shrewpaw and Swanpaw. Sleekfoot was hinting that we might be able to go, and she's Stonestar's sister, so—" she broke off as she felt another wave of coughs coming; her eyes widened as the rough rasps tore themselves from her throat, feeling almost as if they were tearing her from the inside; she gasped, her back arching as she struggled for breaths; the coughs seemed to batter her ears as she choked.

"Whoa, Snowpaw? Snowpaw, are you okay?" Streampaw's voice was tight with anxiety, and out of the corner of her eye she could see that Streampaw had risen to her feet.

Snowpaw tried to wheeze a reply, but she couldn't catch her breath; she felt as though she had been running the entire length of the river without stopping. She gasped, and heard Streampaw dash away, yowling for help. Snowpaw's chest felt tight, as if a badger had pinned her down and was slowly crushing her to death.

Her legs buckled underneath her, and she was aware of her moss scraping against her muzzle, before she was aware of nothing at all.

. . .

"Snowpaw!" Shrewpaw's voice was shrill. "I think she's waiting up. Snowpaw! Can you hear me?"

"You don't have to yell in my ear," she mewed foggily; her vision seemed to be swimming, and her voice came out as a weak croak. "I…."

She was suddenly aware of intense heat rippling through her body; she let out a muffled gasp of pain and flailed, coughing; it felt as if she had been lit on fire.

"Hold her down!" Blackmoon meowed loudly; she felt paws pressing on her from all sides.

_Can't they see the flames? _She thought hazily, and was thrashing all the harder. _I can't let them get burned, I've got to…got to put the flames out…._

She let out a quiet sigh as she felt water trickling down her sides; she opened her eyes a crack to see Blackmoon squeezing a ball of moss with his jaws, sprinkling water over her to cool her.

"Fire," she croaked.

"Snowpaw? Baby, are you okay?" She saw her mother's blue eyes, wide and fearful, gazing down at her. Behind her she saw Volewhisker, his paws pressing down on her flank; he was one of the cats holding her down.

"Did they burn you?" Snowpaw whispered weakly. Iceblossom looked to Volewhisker, then Blackmoon, confused.

"The flames," Snowpaw said, more urgently this time. "Dad, did they burn you?"

Volewhisker's eyes softened. "No, honey, I'm okay. I'm fine. Just worry about yourself, okay?" He looked at Blackmoon. "What can we do?"

"I'm going to need more moss; her fever isn't breaking, and we need to cool her down," Blackmoon said quietly.

"I'll get it, okay?" Shrewpaw asked quickly. "Come on, Swanpaw, let's hurry!" He scrambled to his paws, darting out of the den; Swanpaw moved more slowly. She seemed almost shell-shocked as she gazed at her sister; her blue eyes were faintly glazed.

_She's afraid, _Snowpaw realized. _But…Swanpaw's never afraid._

Her sister's fear scared her more than the flames.

. . .

She must have passed out again; when she opened her eyes, her mother had fallen asleep, her muzzle resting on Snowpaw's flank. It was dark outside; she could see the full moon shining over the camp.

"Hey, honey, are you awake?" Volewhisker asked quietly; his head rose, and she realized he had been licking Iceblossom's fur, soothing her as she slept.

"I'm thirsty," Snowpaw whispered. She could feel the burning again, but it was slightly dulled. Volewhisker nodded; he rose to his paws and grabbed something behind her; another ball of wet moss. He squeezed it near her open mouth, and she drank greedily, letting out a sigh of relief as it slid down her throat.

"Where is everyone?" she whispered. "Is it the Gathering? I've got to go. Sleekfoot was saying I could…." She moved her legs, but Volewhisker shook his head.

"The Gathering's probably almost over by now, honey," he said gently. "Swanpaw and Shrewpaw are already there. We thought it would be better for them, so they don't have to…so they won't worry as much."

"But I have to be with them," Snowpaw said helplessly, feeling overwhelmed. "I promised. We promised. We said we could all go together…."

"I know, but…you're too sick to go. You'll be at the next Gathering, okay? I promise." He nuzzled her shoulder tenderly. "You'll be better really soon."

"Am I sick?"

His ears flattened. "Yeah, honey. It's just a little cough…a little fever…you'll be training again in no time."

Her eyes widened as she remembered Streampaw. "Streampaw's sick too," she meowed urgently. "She has the same thing."

Volewhisker nodded. "We know. She's lying over there…I guess you can't see her. She's asleep."

"The flames?"

"She doesn't have a fever yet, like you did…it's moving a lot faster in you." He swallowed, and she realized her father's eyes were full of pain. "But it doesn't matter. Blackmoon will sort this out as soon as he gets back from the Gathering." He attempted a smile. "Emberflight had her kits, did you know that?"

Snowpaw was grateful for the distraction. "Was everything okay?"

He nodded. "Birdpaw had to help with most of it, since Blackmoon was working on you…but yeah, everything was. Emberflight has three kits…I think you'll really like them, they're tiny little things. I'm not sure who was prouder, Birdpaw or Twigstripe…." He attempted a smile, but it wobbled faintly, and his fear-scent was sharp in her nose. The entire den reeked of it.

"Maybe I'll mentor them, do you think?" Snowpaw murmured; the weariness was sweeping over her again. Volewhisker sighed quietly, pressing his nose against her pelt.

"Maybe you will."

. . .

She thrashed weakly as the flames roared over her body; she could smell her burning fur, her burning flesh.

"Put it out!" she yowled, as the smoke billowed around her. "Mom! Dad! Help! Put it out!"

She could hear them hissing in her ear, telling her there was no fire, but she could see it. It was there, she knew it, she could feel it scorching her

"Hold her down!" a voice roared, and it felt like the ground was shaking beneath her. "We've got to cool her off!"

She opened her eyes and saw the monster standing over her; in his jaws he held a ball of liquid fire. She yowled in terror, trying to move, but his deep voice had caused the den to collapse. She was pinned to the ground by massive boulders; they crushed her, forcing out her breath, and she coughed weakly.

"Iceblossom! Dad!" she howled with fright, but her voice was only a weak whine, no more than a tendril of mist amongst the smoke.

"Do something! Help her!" a voice snarled, high-pitched and terrified, like the whine of a mosquito, and suddenly she was covered in them, they were eating the flames and biting her and she was consumed by fear and pain and buzzing.

"StarClan help," she whispered, but this time the words caught in her throat. She choked on them, trying to spit them out, but they had gathered in a ball in her throat, and the more she tried the bigger it seemed to get. She coughed, trying to force them up, but it only made everything worse. Her paws scrabbled uselessly against the ground as the monster roared and the fire raged and the boulders pressed upon her and the mosquitoes whined and the words choked her and the smoke billowed and her breaths grew more ragged and more worn and more empty until finally she was breathing nothing but smoke and helpless sounds of fear.

"Please," she gasped, and the word was tangled in with the rest of them, gagging her, and it was finally the one that squeezed out the last of her air. And she fell into the darkness, leaving the monster and fire and boulders and mosquitoes and useless words and smoke behind, falling into nothing at all, and somehow the nothing was even worse.

"_Stop."_

_She opened her eyes, and when she did so she realized that everything, all of the terrors, were gone. She was somewhere different, somewhere strange, and she wasn't sure whether it was a good place or a bad place, but it was different from wherever she had been before, that place of horrors, and that was all that mattered._

_It took her a moment to realize that if someone had spoken, there had to be someone there. For a moment she was filled with fear, thinking that it was another roaring monster, but when she looked up it was only a ginger tom._

"_Get up."_

_She sat up slowly, feeling the soft grass beneath her paws, the clean scent of forest air, the light filtering down through the leaves, and she smiled, although she was puzzled. PeakClan had no true forest in its territory; there were too many rocks everywhere for that. The pure, seemingly unending forest was on AshClan's side, and she had always been told never to go there._

Am I on top of the Peak? _She wondered, turning. _Where's Streampaw? I'm not suppose to go here without her…._But this was obviously not the top of the Peak, she could tell that right away. This was…elsewhere._

_She turned back to the ginger tom; he seemed vaguely familiar, for some strange reason. She cocked her head to the side, watching him. "Who are you?"_

_He smiled, and the warmth in his amber gaze was even more familiar._

Hawktalon, _she thought, thinking of Iceblossom's brother, her uncle; he had the same gentleness in his eyes. _

"_My name is Sandpelt," he said slowly. "Do you know that name?"_

"_My grandfather…Iceblossom's father," she said softly. "So you…then I…." Her eyes widened as she understood. "You're dead. So I'm dead too. But…but I…." She turned over her shoulder again, hoping for a view of something familiar, but there was nothing but forest greeting her searching eyes._

"_I can't be dead!" she exclaimed, turning back to her grandfather. "It's not possible! I'm going to become a warrior, one of the best ever…I'm going to a Gathering with my brother and my sister…I'm going to train with Streampaw, and someday she's going to mentor one of my kits, and I'm going to mentor one of Emberflight's…." She took a step backwards. "No. It's not possible. I can't be dead!"_

"_Possible or not, you are," he said gently. "It's not so bad here, in StarClan. There are many other PeakClan cats that you might want to meet."_

"_Streampaw's brother?" Snowpaw wondered. "Puddlekit? Is he here?"_

"_Here with his parents, yes."_

"_He died from…whitecough, I think, when he was really little…I think I caught it too, although I don't remember…."_

_Sandpelt nodded. "But you were strong enough to get over it."_

"_But not that…whatever it was," Snowpaw said slowly._

"_The chilling disease."_

_She blinked at him. "What? No, that's not right. I was on fire, and…everything was…."_

"_That was only in your head. In real life, you were growing colder and colder, moaning in your sleep…and then you slipped away. What you experienced was just a frenzied memory of earlier parts of the sickness, when your fever raged uncontrollably. The afflicted aren't the ones who get to name the disease, you know. They named it after what they saw; a slow, deathly chill."_

"_But…Streampaw. Is she here? She was sick too…."_

"_She is still alive. And so are the other two cats that are currently showing symptoms. But there will be more, and many of them will die." Sandpelt's eyes were dark. "There's nothing StarClan can do but give them signs and try to point them towards the cure."_

"_Swanpaw…Shrewpaw…Iceblossom…Volewhisker…what about them? What are they going to do without me?"_

"_Many things. Iceblossom and Volewhisker will be depressed by your loss, but they will become stronger and closer to your siblings because of it. Shrewpaw will be driven to become a better warrior in honor of your memory. And Swanpaw will decide that to prevent further painful deaths in her Clan, she must aid her Clan by embarking on a journey to save it."_

"_So…." Her ears flattened. "Is my death a good thing? Because I really don't see it that way!"_

_Sandpelt smiled at her, touching her shoulder with his tail. "Of course not. No one expects you to. I thought you might be comforted by the knowledge, but you have to take this in stride for yourself. I understand. Come with me." He flicked his tail. "The rest of StarClan is waiting."_

_Her ears flattened. "Can't I wait for my family? And how do you know for sure that will happen, all that stuff? How do you know everything will turn out okay?"_

_Sandpelt paused to glance over his shoulder at her. "You'll have a long time to wait for your parents; time passes more quickly in life than here, but even so. There's no way to know if everything will end clearly; we cannot see too far into the future. As for how we know what I told you is true…." He smiled. "That much has already happened."_

**AN: We never seem to see Volewhisker at his best. It's a pity, I'm rather fond of him. Rabbitleap's popularity is mostly to blame for his fan-hate, since he didn't love her…but he's honestly a good guy.**


	13. 12 Skeleton

**AN: Semi-inspired by a one-shot I read a long time ago, and decided that I wanted to explore something similar. **

**12. Skeleton**

_Hungry. _The word seemed to be a part of her being, her very self. It rumbled in her belly, pounded in her ears, synced perfect with her heartbeat. _Hun-gry. Hun-gry. Hun-gry._

It wasn't until her mother nuzzled her head that she realized she had been whimpering the word aloud.

"There's no food, honey," her mother whispered into her ear. "As soon as any warrior finds some, they'll bring it to us. It's in the code; kits are cared for first."

"I want there to be food _now,_" she whispered, as her belly gave a pathetic gurgle. She blinked up into her mother's sad blue eyes, set in a pretty cream face.

"I know, Dawnkit, I know," her mother whispered in reply, before her eyes closed and her muzzle thudded slightly against her paws. Dawnkit pressed her head against her mother's side, comforted by her heartbeat.

"Don't worry, Dawnkit, it'll be okay," a confident voice mewed beside her. She turned slightly, blinking into a dark face: Shadekit. Every rib stuck out underneath his jet-black fur, but his yellow eyes glowed with confidence.

"How do you know?"

"StarClan told me, duh," he giggled, twitching his tail at her. "Come on. Want to play?"

Dawnkit hesitated, glancing at her sleeping mother. "I don't know…I'm so tired," she whimpered. "And hungry."

"It'll take your mind off of it," Shadekit wheedled. Dawnkit sighed, rising shakily to her paws and stumbling towards him.

"What are we supposed to play?"

"Let's beat WindClan!" he exclaimed.

"Why?"

"Because they're part of the reason we're hungry. StarClan was mad at their leader for trying to take over the forest, so they sent down lightning and started a fire…but the fire spread to our territory, too," he explained. "If WindClan wasn't so greedy, we wouldn't be so hungry."

"There's still the sickness, too," she pointed out, but Shadekit only rolled his eyes at her.

"ShadowClan has sicknesses all the time. They always kill some cats, but when we're well fed we are usually fine. Now we don't have any food because of the fire, even if we had warriors to hunt it. See? It's WindClan's fault."

Dawnkit nodded, allowing herself to be swayed by Shadekit's logic. "Okay…I want to be Frogclaw."

Frogclaw had been one of the greatest warriors in ShadowClan, but he had fallen ill to the disease that currently ravaged their camp.

Shadekit grinned. "No way, I get to be him. You have to be a she-cat. You can be...um…Paleflower."

She wrinkled her nose at him. "She didn't even fight at any of the battles."

He laughed. "Of course not. You don't get to fight, I'll do it all. I'll protect you, okay?" His eyes gleamed at her.

She yawned, already bored of the game, flopping back to the ground and looking up at him blearily. "Shadekit…I'm hungry."

Shadekit sighed, lying down beside her. "Yeah. Me too."

They were quiet a moment, until Shadekit's ears pricked. "I think I hear the hunting patrol coming back to camp!" he exclaimed with excitement. Immediately, both kits rose to their paws, stumbling towards the den entrance.

Dawnkit's heart rose as she saw the leader of the hunting patrol enter the camp; his name was Foxstrike, and he was the best hunter in the Clan. Behind him came the other warriors; every able-bodied cat had gone on the patrol to try and find something to eat.

ShadowClan's leader, Badgerstar, appeared in the entrance of his den; he limped towards the leader of the patrol slowly. His leg had been badly injured in the most recent battle with WindClan.

"What did you manage to find?" he croaked.

The patrol's leader's shoulders were stooped, and a tremor of anxiety ran through Dawnkit's belly.

"We found very little, sir," Foxstrike said softly. "Only one of us managed to see any prey at all…and we weren't fast enough to catch it."

_They're even hungrier than we are, _she thought, her heart sinking. _We're fed first…so they're even weaker and slower and hungrier than us._

"We did find something, though; the remnants of a fox's kill," Foxstrike continued. "It's fairly fresh. It's still not much, but it's more than nothing."

Badgerstar nodded slowly. "The kits will be happy to have it, I'm sure."

Foxstrike flicked his tail, and one of the warriors broke away from the group, padding towards the nursery. Dawnkit looked up at him anxiously as he lowered a bloody lump of meat to the ground. It was tiny, barely a mouthful for the kits if Dawnkit's mother ate any of it too. Shadekit's mother had died from the sickness fairly early on; the other kits had as well.

"Thank you," Dawnkit whispered; the warrior gave her a small nod, before turning away and collapsing in the corner of camp, like so many of the other broken, dejected warriors.

"Momma," Dawnkit called, turning to look over her shoulder. "They brought us something.

"You two eat it," her mother said softly without opening her eyes. "I'm not hungry."

"Momma?" Dawnkit asked hesitantly. _Not hungry? How can she not be hungry?_

Her mother's head rose slowly, and she blinked at her daughter, her blue eyes shining with gentle kindness. "You need it more than me, sweetie. Go ahead. I'm sure another patrol will bring back something for me."

Dawnkit hesitated; she didn't want to eat her mother's share. Her mother already ate so little, to make sure that Dawnkit and Shadekit both had more.

_Hungry, _her stomach growled.

_Hun-gry. Hun-gry. Hun-gry, _her heart whispered.

Without another word, she turned and took the biggest bite she could manage out of the fox-kill; it was dry and stale, but in that moment she thought she had never tasted anything more juicy and tender. She held it in her mouth for a long moment, simply enjoying the feeling of having her mouth full.

Within a few seconds, the two kits had finished the prey off; they laid on the ground together, pelts barely touching.

"I'm cold," Dawnkit said softly.

"Me too," Shadekit mewed; they were close enough to the entrance that his breath came out as a puff of frost. Slowly, Dawnkit moved closer, until the two kits snuggled together.

It was then that she fell asleep.

. . .

She awoke some time later; she wasn't quite sure how many hours had passed. The sun was gone; the moon hung above them, with a sprinkling of stars on either side. She blinked up at the stars, then frowned.

_They look cold, _she thought. _Colder than we are right now. Colder than the most chilling breeze. Uncaring._

She shivered; snuggling up to Shadekit had only kept her warm on one side. Sleepily, she moved towards her mother, stumbling slightly; her nose hit her mother's flank. It was cold too; normally it wouldn't be much of a surprise, since every cat was cold when they had so little to eat, however her mother was colder than normal, almost frozen.

Dawnkit frowned, pressing her nose against her mother's side, but her mother did not move.

"Momma?" Dawnkit yawned. "Momma?"

Her mother did not answer.

A prickle of fear wormed its way into her heart. "Momma?" she said more insistently. "Momma?"

Nothing.

She moved towards her mother's muzzle, resting serenely on her paws. She pushed her mother's muzzle, but it only lolled to one side. "Momma?" Dawnkit asked frantically. "Momma? Momma? Momma!"

_Wake up! _She thought. _Momma, wake up! It's cold, you can't just sit there. Wake up. Wake up!_

It wasn't until she felt strong jaws pull at her scruff that she realized she had been screaming aloud.

"I'm sorry, little one," she heard Foxstrike say softly in her ear. "She's gone."

. . .

They took her mother's body from her. Several times, she tried to find it, tried to stagger out of camp and find her mother's grave, but she barely made it out of the nursery before she collapsed with exhaustion.

Shadekit was always there to pull her back into the warmth of the nursery. He was the only one that was there for her. Foxstrike and the other warriors were never in camp; they were always combing the territory for any scrap of prey. Badgerstar hid in his den, unable to watch the collapse of his once-proud Clan.

She and Shadekit were together. But they were alone.

Dawnkit stared up at the pale white moon, framed by shining stars.

_They're cold, _she thought again. _Cold and unfeeling._

_Where are you, StarClan? Where were you when our territory burned? When our marshes ran dry? When every scrap of prey in the swamp disappeared? When the sickness swept over our Clan? When my mother died? _She buried her nose in her paws.

_StarClan doesn't care about us. They never did. We are ShadowClan…we lurk in the shadows of their light._

She felt Shadekit press his nose into her fur, comforting her. It was all he could manage; they had both lost the strength to move more than a tail-length days ago.

"Did you hear about Littlekit?" Shadekit whispered to her; Littlekit had been his brother. He had gotten sick later than most of the other cats, and had been confined to the medicine den when it became apparent that none of the herbs worked on the mysterious sickness.

He didn't have to ask. They had heard about it together. Still, she humored him, and nodded weakly.

"Yeah," she croaked. "He just disappeared into thin air. No one could find any trace of him, just a little blood near the entrance…."

"What do you think happened to him?" Shadekit murmured. He never called Littlekit 'brother', only 'him'.

"I don't know."

They were silent then for a long time; minutes or hours, she wasn't sure.

_I'm so tired of this, _she thought. _So tired of the hunger, the cold, the loneliness…StarClan, you don't care about us…but how can you torture us like this, without the hope for anything? We're all going to die, one by one…all of us…._

Consciousness slipped away from her.

For a long time, she simply floated, hoping that she had died. But when Shadekit moved, she moved too, her eyes opening slowly, and she was disappointed to see the desolate camp of ShadowClan still in front of her.

Then, she realized what had made Shadekit move, as paws entered her vision. Her head rose slightly, and she looked up into the face of a brown tom; he was skinny, but not as painfully skinny as most of the warriors she'd seen. She didn't recognize him, but there was no doubt from his scent that he was from ShadowClan.

"Hello," he said quietly. Dawnkit closed her eyes; she didn't have the strength to ask what he wanted. She didn't care. Every breath took her closer to dying, and that was all she wanted.

"You two look cold," the tom said, and he lowered himself until he was on their level.

"Go away," Dawnkit mumbled, pressing her face into Shadekit's thin fur.

"It's not right, letting you two suffer like this," the tom said quietly. "No kit should live through losing their parents, their siblings, and their Clan."

"What choice do we have?" Shadekit asked. His voice rang with defeat; he was so different from the confident, energetic, ambitious kit he had once been.

"You have a choice," the tom said; Dawnkit raised her head just slightly to see him pushing four small black seeds towards them.

"What are those?" Shadekit asked.

"I stole them," the tom said. "They'll make you sleep…forever."

Dawnkit only stared at him. Surely this was only some cruel trick; surely she would only wake up again to this misery as she had before.

The tom's eyes were kind, but they were also dull. Worried. Dead.

"I don't want to die," Shadekit said in a small voice. "I…I want to live."

"Everyone wants to live," the tom said. "But eventually we all die. Some ways are just better than others. Lingering the way you two are…that's one of the most cruelest deaths anyone could ever face. Eat them. Please. They'll take your pain away. When you wake up, you'll be in a better place. StarClan will welcome you."

"I don't care if they do," Dawnkit said bitterly. "They caused all this." She looked to Shadekit. "But…I can't stand this anymore. I'm not strong enough. StarClan…StarClan expects too much from two kits, if they think we can take all this…." She gave a feeble sniffle, and reached out for the four seeds, pushing two of them into Shadekit's paws.

He gazed at her, his beautiful eyes wide. "I'm scared."

"Don't be," she whispered. "Wherever we go, we'll go there together, okay? I promise."

He simply stared at her for a long moment, before closing his eyes and licking up the two seeds. She did as well.

The tom rose to his paws, but Shadekit mewed,

"Don't."

The tom stayed.

Dawnkit tilted her head, looking up at the vacant moon. She felt a tremor of something run through her, something more than cold and hunger. There was a great weariness, as if her entire body had turned to stone.

She rested her muzzle on Shadekit's side, her eyes slowly closing.

"I'm cold," she mumbled to him, as her world went dark around her.

"_Me too."_


	14. 13 Nothing

**AN: Oh look, one of your **_**favorite **_**characters!**

**13. Nothing**

He flicked his tail slowly from side to side, sweeping his golden gaze over his Clanmates; he couldn't help but smile. The war was nearly over; ShellClan and MarshClan had crumpled before FrozenClan's power. He could almost taste the victory on his tongue. He savored the feeling, taking in a deep breath of the fresh mountain air.

_Soon, _he thought. _Soon, we'll have everything that we ever wanted…the Clan is proud of me now. They welcome me. Kits stare at me with adoration, she-cats whisper to one another, toms praise my prowess…._He let out a long, low purr. It was a good feeling to be needed. It was even better to be revered.

He swept his tongue over his muzzle, flicking his gaze over the camp once more, meeting the eyes of his warriors – no, his followers. For he had finally achieved that stature, that power that he had always craved. He was _someone, _out of everyone else, and that was all that mattered.

His ear flicked as he heard his name on the breeze whispering through the tunnels of the cave; he blinked with surprise to see one of the warriors from the most recent patrol standing in the entrance to the cave.

"Hello, Tigerfur," he said. The patrol leader gave him a polite nod, before flicking his tail; behind him was the rest of the patrol, and another cat that he didn't recognize.

He drew in a breath, tasting her scent; she watched him with frightened green eyes, set in a pretty cream face.

_Rogue, _he thought, savoring her scent in his mouth; she smelled like flower petals, soft and delicate.

"Who is she?" he asked. Tigerfur's fur ruffled uncomfortably.

"She won't speak to us, so we aren't sure," he meowed. "We followed her scent, though. She probably comes from the pine forest."

He frowned. "There has been a lot of unrest in that area, correct?"

Tigerfur nodded. "Twolegs have been messing around there; we can see the smoke from their machines from the tunnels."

He let out a hiss of distaste at the thought of the Twolegs; he hated them almost as much as he admired their power.

_A single Twoleg can chase off any warrior, _he thought. _One monster can send a Clan scattering for cover…._

"Wait here," he ordered. Tigerfur nodded, and he padded towards the leader's den, poking his nose inside.

Cold golden eyes greeted him. "Yes, Ratwhisker?"

"Tigerfur's patrol just returned with a stranger," he meowed quickly. "She won't speak, but from what they can gather, she's just some rogue…."

The white tom rose to his feet. "It would be best to get rid of her, then. We're at a touchy place in this war, Ratwhisker. It would not be wise to let her go when we still have BirchClan to conquer."

"Of course, Northstar," he said quickly. "But..I was wondering if you would let me handle this?"

His leader watched him with caution. "What do you have in mind?"

Ratwhisker's golden eyes glowed. "Well, Crowtalon and I have an idea, based on some of your father's older…work."

Northstar's lip curled. "That old experiment? I've told you that I have no interest in that. We don't need to break she-cats or whatever you call that disgusting practice."

"I know that you've never been completely in favor of it," he said quickly, "but I only wish to use it as an experiment. If it works, it could be very useful, not only for she-cats, but for all of the cats that you are bringing under your control by crushing the forest Clans."

His leader's eyes narrowed. "I can hardly see that. From what I've heard, each cat would have to be 'treated' individually, and it takes a very long time."

"This is true…but if we had time, we could refine the technique. I am certain of that. Please, Northstar, just give me this one chance. What is one rogue worth, when there is a war going on?" His lip almost curled as he pleaded; it was difficult for him to uncurl his pride to do so, but he knew that Northstar's ego had to be soothed; the white tom had to believe that he held absolute power.

_The fool has no idea that Crowtalon plans to betray him, _Ratwhisker thought smugly. _But then again, few cats do. I am one of those privileged few. Crowtalon sees the value in me, unlike you, Northstar. If need be, I can simply wait for Crowtalon to overthrow you, and conduct my experiments then…._

The tip of Northstar's tail twitched from side to side; he appeared to be deep in thought. Finally, he let out a growl.

"Fine. But I don't want this to be heard by the rest of the Clan. Tell Tigerfur you're escorting her back to wherever she came from. Make sure wherever you go it is far away from camp, somewhere that no one will stumble onto it."

His eyes glinted, and he dipped his head. "Of course, Northstar. No one will find out, I promise you that.'

Northstar flicked his tail. "You are dismissed."

Ratwhisker could hardly contain his excitement as he trotted out of Northstar's den, towards the waiting warrior.

"Northstar has decided that we should take her home," he said, fixing the rogue with his powerful golden gaze. "I'll take care of it."

Tigerfur was grateful; he was obviously tired from his patrol. "Understood, sir. Thank you." Ratwhisker relished the moment as Tigerfur dipped his head before padding away.

He grinned at the cream rogue; she stared back at him with frightened green eyes.

"Don't worry, pet," he purred, touching her flank. "You're safe with me. Let's get you home."

. . .

The she-cat let out a gasp of pain as his claws sliced into her flesh. He grinned, tasting her fear and blood.

"You're nothing, do you hear me?" he snarled down at her. "You are nothing. You are weak, defenseless, filthy, pathetic. You huddle here before me, powerless. You are no more important than a pebble in the mountains, a grain of sand in the sea, a single leaf in the forest. You are _nothing._"

The she-cat let out a muffled whimper. "Please. Please, stop. Let me go. I won't tell anyone, I promise—"

At this, he laughed, throwing his head back and allowing his cackle to ring against the stone walls of the den, battering the she-cat's ears. "You'll never get out of here, pet," he purred, shoving his muzzle aggressively into her face. "There's only one way you're getting out of here, and that's in my jaws when I throw your body off of the nearest cliff."

Horror filled her eyes then, and he reveled in it. Then, he sliced her muzzle with his claws, sending her head thudding against the hard stone floor.

"Did I say you could look at me, filth?" he screeched down at her. "I am infinitely more powerful than you. I am _nobility_ compared to the sorry likes of you, do you understand? You will not look at me unless I tell you that you can!"

She let out another whimper. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," she whispered to the stone floor, trembling helplessly on the cold ground. Ratwhisker allowed himself a cruel grin.

"You're nothing, pet," he whispered into her ear. "Wherever you came from, your family is already forgetting you ever existed…or they're dead. Your memory will be forgotten to the sands of time, torn away like so many others. You will never be like me. You will never have a legacy. You will be forgotten, like every other miserable rogue like you."

He turned around and left the den, rolling the boulder into the entrance with his shoulder, letting out a deep, rumbling purr as he headed back to camp.

Northstar called him into his den almost immediately.

"How are you progressing on your…task?" the white tom asked. Ratwhisker glanced down towards the vole sitting between his leader's black paws, and his mouth filled with water.

"It's going well," was all he said. Northstar's eyes narrowed.

"It's been several days now, and you've been less than discreet. There's always blood on your claws when you come into camp."

Ratwhisker surveyed his claws with an expression of mild surprise. "So there is."

Northstar let out a threatening growl, and before Ratwhisker quite knew what was going on, the white tom was on his paws, staring him down, pelt bristling.

"I told you to keep this a secret, and you're failing," he snarled. "Not only that, but you've made very little progress."

"These things take time!" Ratwhisker protested, ears flattening. "You can't break a she-cat in two or three days, you know."

"Which is exactly why I was never with my father on this issue," Northstar hissed. "Hurry it up. You have until the halfmoon. If she is not completely broken and obedient to you by then, kill her. I don't need my best warriors distracted by torturing she-cats."

Ratwhisker's temper flared. "That's only a few days away, not nearly enough time!" he snarled. Immediately Northstar's eyes blazed, and Ratwhisker realized his mistake. Before he could even move, FrozenClan's leader had pinned him to the ground.

"You may be the hero of our battle with ShellClan, but do not think it makes you immune to my wrath," Northstar hissed, his breath hot against Ratwhisker's face. "You are subservient to me. Do not mistake that. You have until the halfmoon."

. . .

Ratwhisker entered the den, his pelt crackling with anger; the she-cat's eyes flew to his face, and he let out a fearsome snarl, hitting her head so hard that she flew into the back of the den.

"What did I tell you? You are not worthy to look me in the eyes!" he yowled, his tail lashing.

_Who does Northstar think he is?_ He seethed. _He cannot interfere with this. I will not let him! This is my experiment, and I will conduct it as I see fit!_

"Look at me!" he snarled down at her. She cowered before him, refusing to raise her eyes. He slashed at her shoulder, and she felt back with a cry. "Look at me!"

"Y-you said not to," she half-mewed, half-wailed.

"Do what I say, understand? I am your master, your only master! You will listen to me and only me, do you understand?" He struck her again, leaving her muzzle streaked with blood. She collapsed under his blow, and this only made him angrier.

"Have you no backbone? No spirit?" he raged, and struck her again, and again, and again, raining blows down upon her until she was nothing more than trembling bloody fur.

"When I tell you to look at me, you will do so," he spat down at her. "Do you understand? Look at me, you pathetic scrap!"

She did not move for a long moment; then, slowly, her green eyes fluttered open and made their way to his face. Just as slowly, they slid away.

He panted, exhausted by his abuse of her. Finally, he turned away, padding out of the den without a word.

He leaned against the boulder for a long moment, simply panting, catching his breath.He looked down at himself, and realized that he was covered in blood, none of it his own.

_Northstar won't be pleased, _ he thought, and all of his anger rose back up again at the thought of his leader. _I hope Crowtalon _destroys _him, _he thought vehemently.

He shook himself with a scowl. _I'll need to find a stream and wash all of this off, I suppose. Better hurry. _ He glanced towards the den, which was still wide open, then smirked. _I don't even have to close it. She's not going anywhere looking like that…and leaving open the possibility of freedom will torture her so much more deliciously._

For a moment, he felt a tremor of unrest – was he really deriving so much pleasure from torturing this she-cat? He had done similar things in the past – being a little too fierce against his fellow apprentices while sparring, planting thorns in the nests of his Clanmates, and then of course his brutal victory over ShellClan - but he had never gone quite this far.

He shook himself again. _I'm doing this for the Clan, not merely myself. Crowtalon will see it for what it is: a valuable asset to the Clan. _

With that, he turned away, padding up the rocky incline, heading for the nearest stream.

It was the softest whisper of a pebble skirting over stone that alerted him; he was already twenty fox-lengths away from the den when he heard it. He turned around quickly, his eyes widening as he saw the she-cats cream form, half out of the den. She stared up at him, her green eyes wide, and for a moment they were both perfectly still.

Then, she bounded forward with all the agility of a deer, springing over the stones in her path; he both marveled at her speed and cursed her for it as he tore after it, narrowly avoiding losing his grip on the stones and tumbling down the mountainside.

"Stop!" he snarled, but if anything she went faster. _How can she run like that with her injuries? _ The back of his mind wondered, but he was too focused to care; anger blazed over his pelt, hotter than any fire, and he let out a feral snarl as he neared her. She shot him one terrified look over her shoulder, and he could see her surprise at the smirk that was crawling over his face, for he saw what she did not. She was ready to run straight over the edge of a cliff.

As soon as she turned back to focus on her path, she saw it, and she skidded to a stop, narrowly avoiding going over the edge; a shower of pebbles in front of her fell instead, clattering down the sides, into the abyss.

"Nowhere to go now, pet!" he roared with triumph, only a few fox-lengths away. She turned to look at him again, but this time her eyes were not wide, not frightened. They were as cold as ice, chillingly green, and in that moment he knew what she was going to do.

"No!" he yowled, lunging, but it was too late; she was already in the air, was already gliding forward as softly as a feather. She twisted around, keeping her eyes on him, and his gaze followed her all the way down, until she disappeared into the shadows of the abyss.

Latching his claws against the edge, he leaned forward, trying to hear the noise of her striking the ground, but he could not; it seemed that she was falling forever. He waited, straining, but still did not hear the sound of her demise.

It was as if she had simply faded away into the darkness. Faded into nothing.

**AN: Someone (can't remember who D:) suggested –whisker for his suffix after he told Nightshade that his prefix used to be Rat. Since I use –whisker for cats that are sensitive to emotion and all that, it worked out very well for him, cuz he's the best manipulator there ever was (he even managed to manipulate you guys when he died :D). **

**Anyway, this is obviously Blight's first victim. After Crowtalon overthrew Northy, Blight had time to attempt to 'break' one more she-cat before he was sent away on his scouting mission. His second attempt failed as well; Nightshade was his first success. Blight learns from his mistakes. **

**Her name was Fawnspring. She was a member of the Kalan, and one of Reedrush's good friends. Reedurhs never found out what happened to her, only that she disappeared one night as the Twolegs ripped the lake apart….**


	15. 14 Servitude

**14. Servitude**

He closed his eyes, relaxing as the gentle sunlight graced his pelt; he let out a gusty sigh as he rolled over onto his side, stretching out with a purr of pleasure. The earth was warm against his muzzle, relaxing and soothing. It was times like these that he could truly let himself go, to forget about the hustle and bustle of Clan life and just appreciate the fresh air and sunlight.

A tail brushed over his flank, and he opened his eyes to see dazzling blue eyes blinking down at him. They were framed by beautiful white fur, soft and fluffy as a cloud. Instead of being pleased, his mood soured.

"What do you want, Snowstep?" he growled. The she-cat grinned.

"Doesn't that hurt?" she purred, flicking her tail over his nose. "If we had traded places, I could never say your warrior name without wincing and knowing what a failure I was."

His own eyes narrowed. "Unlike you, I really don't care about having a warrior name. Swiftpaw is fine by me."

"How ironic, to give a name that inspires images of flight and movement to a cat so…sluggish." She prodded him with one paw. "Come on, little brother, get up."

"I'm not your little brother," he spat. "I was two minutes behind you. Two!"

"Yes, and a moon behind when it comes to warrior names," Snowstep said smugly. "Have you made any progress at all? Have you even _tried_?"

His eyes closed and he flopped back onto his side. "I'm perfectly content with the way things are now. Being an apprentice isn't so bad, and being a warrior only means that you have to train an apprentice yourself eventually. Why bother?"

Snowstep sighed softly. "Which is precisely why you'll never be anything, little Swifty. Now, come on. We need to talk…away from everyone else."

His ears pricked with curiosity, and he opened his eyes once more to gaze at his sister. Her own blue eyes danced playfully as she looked down on him, and a smile curled her muzzle in a manner that was both infuriating and alluring.

"Fine," he scowled, heaving himself to his paws; Snowstep's eyes danced over his pelt.

"You could be a good warrior, little brother," she purred as she nudged him again and headed towards the entrance of camp. "You're big, strong, loyal. If you just put your mind to it, you could be an even better warrior than me."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," he grunted, then frowned. "Where are we going?"

"Towards the willow, of course," she said with a grin. He stopped and stared at her, and she blinked back at him innocently.

"What's the matter? You used to love going to the old willow."

"Yeah, back when our mother was alive. But she's…not around anymore." He looked away from her, staring down at his blue-gray paws. Her white paws entered his vision as she stroked her tail over his shoulder.

"I know you miss her. You two were close, everyone gets that. But that was moons ago, Swifty. She's been gone for a long time. Don't you think it's time to move on? She's watching you from StarClan now. Don't you want to make her proud?"

He pushed past her, continuing through the brush.

. . .

His breath caught as they entered the little glade; the old willow tree with her drooping branches and knotted roots grew in front of him. Her limbs draped down into the little stream that ran around her tiny isleand, carrying in its belly dozens of small silver fish. He felt a rush of nostalgia, and for a moment pictured his mother leaning against the willow and crouching over the stream, one white paw poised to strike.

"Pretty as ever, huh?" Snowstep whispered in his ear. "It's been a long time since we were here. Didn't you miss it? I know I did."

He ignored her, padding towards the stream and peering into its muddy depths; once it had run clear, but moons before there had been a shift in the flow of the main river which had fed it. The stream was a shadow of its former self, muddy and shallow. Soon there would be no fish in it at all.

"What are you thinking about now?" Snowstep asked, her voice smooth and silky. Irritation prickled his pelt and he turned to glare at her.

"What do you _want?_" he growled. "You brought me here for a reason, and it wasn't just to talk about our mother and reminiscence. Stop playing mind games, I'm sick of them."

Snowstep only grinned at him, her ivory fangs matching her equally white fur. "I don't want anything from you, Swifty. I just miss you. Sleeping in the warrior den is lonely sometimes without you there. I wish you were a warrior too…."

He found himself relaxing under her warm blue gaze, and he allowed her to nuzzle his shoulder with her soft pink nose. "I miss you too. Sometimes the apprentice den is a little empty, I guess…."

"Especially without Berrypaw?"

He recoiled from her, eyes wide. "What? Why did you have to mention her?"

Her eyes were wide and innocent. "What do you mean?"

His fur was bristling and his amber-yellow eyes were wild. "You know what I mean! I told you I don't want to hear her name!" He closed his eyes, taking a step back as Berrypaw's paws came into his mind, thrashing against the dark water dragging her down, startling scarlet against the white tempest swirling around her.

"I didn't mean to upset you," Snowstep mewed. "I just knew that you both were close…and you feel guilty for her death…."

"No, I don't," he spat. "I wasn't responsible for that. There was nothing I could do, she was…she was in the river, she was drowning, I couldn't have…I couldn't have saved her."

"You know as well as I do that isn't true." His sister's voice was calm and soothing, like honey over his ears, but it only made him feel more frantic. "You could have dove in after her, or tried to drag her to safety. But you just watched, didn't you?"

"F-Foxstar said there was nothing I could do. He said it wasn't my fault…."

"He lied." Her voice was as sharp as thorns, a strange shift from her gentle words before. "It was your fault, Swiftpaw. You could have saved her, but instead you let her die…and StarClan saw the whole thing. Foxstar hasn't forgiven you; why do you think you're still an apprentice? You killed his daughter."

"I didn't kill anyone! Berrypaw was my friend, I could never have hurt her on purpose!" he spat, feeling panic rising in his throat, threatening to choke him.

"It's okay, Swifty," Snowstep mewed, her voice soft and calm once more. "I'm not angry with you. I know you're a good cat and you would never do anything like that on purpose. But that doesn't change the fact that it was your fault. You're responsible for another cat's death. How do you think StarClan is looking at that? What do you think they're deciding right now?"

He stared at her. "I'm not a bad cat. I'm not! StarClan knows that."

"You killed Berrypaw, whether it was on accident or on purpose. And you've given up on trying to become a warrior. You're a burden to RiverClan. You aren't acting as a tool for StarClan as you should."

He blanched. "A tool?"

She nodded with deliberate slowness. "We're all just tools of StarClan. They guide us to make the best decisions possible for those we care about, our Clan. We're all their servants, Swifty, whether you realize it or not. And right now, you're not doing what they ask of you. You've failed them."

"N-no. I haven't failed StarClan. Shut up, would you?" His tail lashed from side to side and he glared at her before turning his attention back to the murky stream. Snowstep moved to his other side, tilting her muzzle towards his ear.

"I think StarClan has tried to tell you this for a long time," she whispered. "Don't you remember when this stream used to be silver and beautiful? When the willow was strong and proud? That all changed that leaf-bare, after Berrypaw died…."

"It's not my fault," he repeated, feeling like a helpless kit as he touched the flowing water with one paw.

"But you can fix it, Swifty. I know you can." She pressed her nose against his neck. "StarClan has been speaking to me. They've told me I have a great destiny. But in order to become who I must be, there are others that must be…taken care of."

He moved away from her touch, turning to face her. "Taken care of? What do you mean?"

"There's a lot you don't know about our Clan," Snowstep said, her voice feather-soft. "Like how corrupt our deputy is…and how he's in league with ShadowClan."

His eyes widened. "ShadowClan?"

"Yes. StarClan told me that Blackstorm has been speaking with ShadowClan warriors to try and overthrow Foxstar. And he has another ally…Cloudstream."

He inhaled sharply. "Cloudstream? No. She couldn't…she could never do that. She's not that kind of cat! She could never plot against our Clan."

"I'm sorry, Swifty, but it's true." Snowstep's eyes were as gentle and calming as a still lake. "We've got to do something. We've got to protect our Clan. You want to show StarClan you're a true warrior, right? Let me show you how."

He blinked slowly, apprehension crawling over his pelt. "Berrypaw…I dream of her sometimes. In my dreams she says she's forgiven me, but…it's not true." He bowed his head. "Snowstep…I don't want StarClan to hate me or be disappointed in me just because I'm not as ambitious or brave as you…I couldn't save Berrypaw, I was too frightened…."

Snowstep nuzzled his shoulder. "I understand, Swifty. You can fix what happened to her. But you can make up for it by helping me."

"What are we going to do?"

She smiled, her eyes glinting a steely blue. "We're going to kill them."

. . .

He crept forward on nearly silent paws despite his great size, feeling the brush part before him. His target was crouched just a few fox-lengths ahead, bending to lap up some of the icy water of the fast-flowing river. His coat glinted dully in the moonlight, dyed silver by the moon's soft touch.

He felt the slightest tingle of apprehension, but ignored it. Snowstep had instructed him to do this. He knew he was only being used by her; he was well aware of that now. But it didn't matter. So long as he obeyed her orders, everything would work out. He had to believe that her intentions were pure, despite her consuming ambition.

His target shifted suddenly, making him stiffen with surprise; the target's ears swiveled as the older cat turned his head slightly, his old eyes sweeping over the area to check for dangers. He pressed his stomach to the ground to avoid detection, and the target returned his own attention to the river.

_Easy does it. A quick, clean kill, nothing too messy. _

The target bent over, peering into the water. It was at that moment when he struck.

He lunged forward, feeling his muscles gather for a powerful strike. He sprang forward, paws outstretched, and knocked the target to the ground. He flipped him over, ready to bite into his throat.

"Swiftshade?"

He hesitated for only a moment, staring down at Foxstar, who appeared aghast, his amber eyes glittering with fear. "Swiftshade, what are you doing?"

"What I must," he grunted.

"You don't have to do anything, Swiftshade!" the old leader exclaimed. "Who put you up to this? Who's forcing you into this? I promise you, Swiftshade, you don't have to do this." He struggled, thrashing, but Swiftshade was too strong and heavy for the aged tom to get away.

"You're wrong," he said, his voice emotionless, inflectionless. "I don't have a choice. Ultimately, we're all StarClan's servants…and some of us are the servants of the living, too."

Foxstar opened his mouth but didn't have time to say anything before Swiftshade's jaws met his throat. The leader gave a gurgle as Swiftshade bit down, his body twitching feebly. The ginger tom finally went still, and Swiftshade pulled back, waiting a moment. The old tom didn't move.

_Snowstep was right. That really was his last life. Foxstar's reign is over. Snowstep…will become Snowstar. _He closed his eyes before touching the leader's cooling body with his nose. Then, he let out a grunt as his jaws once against fastened around Foxstar's throat. He dragged the ginger tom into the river, feeling the tug of the current against the dead tom's body and his own paws. Then, carefully, he released him, and watching the old tom drift under the surface of the water as the current pulled him away.

Swiftshade's eyes flicked up to the stars, watching them gleam overhead, glinting like ice crystals in the inky darkness. _Are you watching, Berrypaw? _His ears flattened. _You're probably not proud of me. I failed you that day. I let you die. If there's anything I regret, it's that._

_But I can't betray Snowstep. She's my sister. I don't know if Blackstorm or Cloudstream were really working with ShadowClan…but I had to kill them. And Foxstar…Snowstep was right, he was too old to be a leader, he…._He clenched his jaw with frustration, knowing that he was only trying to justify what he had done. But murdering his Clanmates was inexcusable. He knew that.

_We're all slaves to someone, Berrypaw. I'd rather it be my sister, my own flesh and blood, than a bunch of dead cats I've never met. And if I've got to kill for her…so be it._

**AN: I love Snowstep's name. Even though she's a total jerk, murderer by proxy, etc. :3**

**Anyway, I had some down time after I passed 50k with my NaNo and knew you guys would be clamoring for some sort of update from me. It might be a little while before I get a real chapter out, but until then hopefully showing a bit of Swiftshade's past will wet your appetites? :D**


	16. 15 Possibilities

**15. Possibilities**

She fixed her odd-eyed gaze upon him, knowing that it made him uncomfortable. Few cats could stand to look at her eyes, with one gleaming blue and one glittering yellow. It unnerved them; some said her eyes were unnatural.

She didn't care. Her eyes were just one more thing that made her special, beautiful, exotic. They set her apart from the rest of her dreary, scrawny, cowardly Clan. Her lip almost curled with disgust, but she quickly masked the emotion, not wanting to alert him to her traitorous thoughts.

_All in good time. First, I need to secure my position…._Her eyes darted towards the still body lying on the edge of camp. Numerous cats were crowded around it, wishing their dear deputy farewell. She struggled to contain a snort of contempt; as a deputy, Lightflower had been useless. Sure, she had been attentive and kind, and sought to work out disputes as well as she could, but when it came to leading a charge, or leading a patrol, or simply leading _anything, _she had been inept. She had often mocked poor Lightflower behind her back, and, being as stupid as she had been, the deputy had never noticed.

_But now…._She kept her eyes on him, and smirked as his finally looked away as he stared down at his deputy's body. Her death had been his fault, of course. Dearest Featherstar – what a stupid name for a tom, but then again Darkfeather had always been terrible at naming kits, as well as vain – refused to act harshly towards ShadowClan, and giving them so much leeway had cost the Clan one loyal – if inept – deputy.

_And no one knows why, _she thought with pleasure. _No one but I knows what dear, brave, oh-so-noble Featherstar has going on with ShadowClan. Only I am privy to this knowledge, because I am not a hopeless fool, following Featherstar blindly into battle…._Her muzzle curled into another smirk. To some, it would be seen as arrogant, but of course any that dared view her as such were simply fools themselves.

Her white tail, dappled elegantly with ginger, brushed over the dusty ground as she watched the ceremony. _I suppose I should 'pay my respects' to her as well, _she thought, rising to her paws gracefully. She padded towards the body, and with a single glance the cats parted like the sea, allowing her to move through them. She stared at Lightflower for a moment – the pale tabby looked even more pathetic in death – before bending down her graceful neck and touching her nose to Lightflower's ear. To any other cat, it would look like a sign of grief, but it was all she could do not to smile as she whispered,

"Perhaps you should have listened to me."

With that, she stepped back, and the cats gathered around their fallen deputy once more. She turned away without another glance in their direction, padding towards Featherstar. She took her sweet time, and he grew more and more on edge as she approached, which suited her just fine.

"Who would have thought," she mewed as she sat down beside him, "that we would be burying our dear deputy so soon?"

"Not I," Featherstar said, his voice soft; he kept his eyes fixed on Lightflower, rather than trying to look into her own dazzling eyes. "She had much life left in her still…I thought she would serve WindClan for seasons, if not years, to come."

She nodded. "Yes. A pity ShadowClan cut her life short." Featherstar flinched, and her mismatched eyes gleamed. "Who were the warriors on that patrol, do you remember?"

"It was…too fast for me to recall," Featherstar said, but her keen ears were able to detect the lie. "Everything was blurred. Before I knew what was happening, we were fighting, and I heard her cry out…I was too late."

"Someone said that they thought they saw a cream she-cat," she mewed. No one had said anything of the sort, of course, but the words seemed to shake her leader.

"I didn't see her."

"Really? I would have thought she'd be hard to miss…there's only one cream she-cat in ShadowClan, after all."

"They must have been mistaken."

"Well, keen-eyed warriors of WindClan don't usually make mistakes…but perhaps you're right." She smirked as she saw the small tremor in Featherstar's shoulders.

"I'd rather not speak of the battle," Featherstar said, rising to his paws. "I've got to make the decision for the next deputy before moonhigh. I'll be in my den."'

"I'll go with you." She rose to her paws as well, tilting her head to the side as she watched him. Featherstar's eyes narrowed, and for a moment he almost looked angry with her. But how could he be, as stunning and lovely as she was?

"This is a decision that a leader should make for himself. Alone." There was a slight growl to his voice, but she ignored it.

"I _really _think I should come," she meowed, allowing a venomous tone to enter her silvery voice. Alarm crossed Featherstar's features, and she smiled as she realized they both shared an understanding; now they both knew exactly what she knew.

Featherstar's eyes darted back to Lightflower's body, then returned to her face, and he nodded. "Perhaps you're right. Come with me."

She followed him into his den, ducking her head slightly to avoid touching the stone; it would only mess up her fur, and she had groomed it to shimmering perfection simply for this moment. Featherstar sat down in his nest, and stared at her. She sat down as well, allowing her eyes to flick over the den lazily, savoring the moment. It was the first time she had been in the leader's den, but after tonight she was confident that it would not be the last.

Featherstar's gaze was firmer now as he stared at her, but she continued to ignore him, sizing up the den. It was dusty and a little too small for her liking – she had always loved large spaces – but it would do.

Featherstar finally cleared his throat. "What is it that you want?"

She flicked her gaze back to him and gave him an innocent smile. "I think you know exactly what I want, Featherstar."

"I can't just give you the deputy position, if that's what you're asking."

"'Asking' implies that there is a chance that I might not get the position. So no, Featherstar, I am not asking. I am telling you that I will become deputy…one way or another."

Anger flashed in her leader's eyes, but she was unafraid; she was confident that she could best him if it came to a fight, and if it did she would have more than her claws and fangs on her side. Truth was also a powerful weapon, even though some thick-skulled cats – like Featherstar – chose to disregard it.

"Let us possible – _possibly _– say that I am considering you for deputy," he growled. "What makes you think that you are worthy of the position? What makes you think that I will give it to you?"

Her nose twitched – she despised hypothetical scenarios - but she replied, "I know you will give it to me because there are secrets that I am privy to…secrets that you do not want out in the open. You don't want your Clan to know anything that I know. Believe me." She gave him her most dazzling, terrifying smile.

"Let's say, possibly, that there are secrets I would rather have kept hidden…every cat has secrets, you know. Why do you think these secrets are valuable?"

"Because if they were to become known, your leadership would crumble and ShadowClan would be thrown into chaos. And as our _noble _leader, you wouldn't want that, now would you?"

It was Featherstar's turn to be irritated. "What could these secrets possibly be, that they could shake my leadership so? I'm popular with WindClan and well-respected in others. There isn't much that could harm me now."

"Well, every leader's popularity ebbs and flows…and there are certain things that would definitely make yours ebb."

He shifted his weight, looking uncomfortable. "What could you possibly know?"

She was torn between enjoying watching him squirm and hating his continued pretending of ignorance; she bared her fangs at him, allowing her temper to show. "I know all about your relationship with Honeyfur, for one thing."

Featherstar flinched. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't play dumb," she hissed, the fur around her shoulders bristling. She had her temper carefully under control, of course, but decided that it was better for him to see it. "You know exactly what I'm talking about, and you know exactly what would happen if the Clan knew you were having a relationship with a ShadowClan cat."

His ears flattened against his head. "This is a serious accusation you're making."

"And it's one that I can back up," she spat. "Every cat is wondering why you haven't made a move against ShadowClan yet. We're all just _dying _to know why you're letting their prey-stealing and border-crossing go unpunished. Mudstar insulted you to your face at the last Gathering, and still you did nothing…and I couldn't help but notice the cream she-cat in attendance. Not to mention the rumors that she's going to bear an unknown tom's kits in a few moons…."

Featherstar swallowed; he did not look angry, and she knew that he couldn't defend himself. An innocent cat would have exploded, protested, roared that they had done no such thing, but a guilty cat had no defense.

"When the Clan hears of this and realizes that their dear deputy's death was _your _fault, they will turn on you," she purred, her temper lowering from a frightening blaze to a gentle, flickering flame. "You've been a good leader, Featherstar; surely you don't want to be remembered for your relationships, now do you?"

She smirked as he didn't hear the hidden threat – relationships, plural - as he was obviously too wrapped up in his own thoughts. Finally, he sighed.

"Let's say that I might possibly give you the deputy position," he meowed, his voice ringing with defeat. "Would you, in turn, keep this possible secret to yourself?"

Irritation crackled over her pelt, but she masked it with a small smile. "Oh no, Featherstar. You're going to do much better than that."

He stared at her, fear creeping into his blue eyes. "What more could you want?"

"That isn't the only secret I know," she smirked. "There's another that's also quite dangerous for you…one that would cost you not only your leadership, but also possibly your position in the Clan."

"What?" he demanded. "What do you know?"

"Well…I noticed how strangely our lovely medicine cat has been acting lately," she said, her voice as smooth as honey. "And I thought it was peculiar how she took Lightflower into her den, even though she claimed that the deputy was dead…isn't that right?"

"It is."

"Why would she do that, then? Why would she take a cat that was already dead in for treatment?"

The realization flickered in his gaze, and his expression became one of horror. "No."

"Yes," she meowed, almost grinning. "She killed Lightflower…or she at least withheld treatment so that Lightflower would die. And you knew, didn't you? Because Lightflower knew, or at least thought she did. Lightflower thought she knew your secret, and she was more than willing to share it with the Clan."

"No, no. That's not—"

"It is," she said, her voice taking on almost a sing-song quality; her victory was close at paw. "Lightflower thought she knew the secret, that you and Smallpoppy used to be a thing. But you broke it off in favor of Honeyfur, which Lightflower didn't know. Lightflower was going to tell the Clan, until she was killed fighting ShadowClan…or rather, Smallpoppy let her die in secret. How tragic, to have our deputy's life cut so short."

Featherstar was lost for words; his eyes darted towards the entrance of the Clan. "Let's say that's possibly true…what do you want, beyond becoming deputy?"

"After naming me the deputy, you will step down."

His eyes almost popped out of his head. "W-what?"

She shrugged. "It's easier than killing you. You've still got a few lives left, and getting my paws dirty with that sort of thing is simply beneath me. You will name me your successor, and then tell of your affair with Honeyfur."

"W-why would I do that?"

"Because that is not _nearly _as bad as me telling them the full story, about Smallpoppy killing Lightflower. Knowing that you caused the death of your deputy indirectly is one thing; knowing that you were dancing around with a medicine cat, a _forbidden _cat, who actively murdered Lightflower…that's another thing entirely. You don't want _anyone _knowing that."

He stared at her with blatant disbelief. "So you think I will step down? Are you insane?"

She tilted her head to the side. "You seem fond of possibilities, so let's outline some scenarios, shall we? You do as I ask and you are discredited in front of your Clan, forced to step down in disgrace. Since you were the one telling them, they won't exile; in time they will forgive you, although you will never have the status you once held. If you do not do as I ask, _I _will be the one to speak to the Clan, and I shall tell them both stories. The Clan will exile you outright, if they don't execute you, and Smallpoppy will also feel the repercussions of her crimes. The Clan will have to choose a new leader…and while they will probably choose me, being that I am the one who exposed your lies and I am rather magnificent, there is still a chance that they might not.

"I'm sure it's obvious that the second scenario won't bode well for either of us, so I can only assume you'll agree to the first." She smiled at him again, but this time left out the dazzling charm and only gave him the terrifying portion of her grin.

Featherstar's mouth opened and closed several times, making him look like a gutted fish, but he finally closed his eyes and heaved a sigh. "I…I'll think about it."

She smiled and twitched her tail at him. "I'm sure you'll find it's the only…possibility. I'll be waiting outside the den with everyone else. I look forward to your decision." She dipped her head to him in a mockingly respectful manner, before turning and exiting the den.

As the wind of the moors touched her face and she lifted her head towards the sky, she smiled.

_Brightstar…yes, I like that name quite a bit. _

**AN: So yeah, this chapter is really, really biased towards Brightstar. Her smugness kind of overwhelms everything, which is the entire point, considering her flaw/sin. **

**I think each of the Sin kitties will have their own chapter. Skeleton was Shrew (as Shimmertail guessed) although he wasn't named in the chapter (and what was shown wasn't the only bad thing that he did, sooo). We've got Nettle, Dapple, and Chilly remaining. ^^**

**Also, considering that Shrew lived at the same time as Brightstar (although he was a little younger than she was) and there was a cream queen in his chapter…well. Make of that what you will. ;)**


	17. 16 Weightless

**16. Weightless**

_She grinned at him, reaching out with one white forepaw to bat at his ear. He let out a playful growl and sprang at her, but she managed to avoid him by rolling to the side. The action coated her thick fur with a layer of dust, but she didn't have time to worry about that. The battle was on. She scrambled to her paws as quickly as she could and leaped at him, her paws scrabbling for a hold in his thick gray fur._

_He yelped as she accidentally unsheathed her claws and pricked him, but she didn't apologize, moving to fasten her teeth around his scruff. He flailed about, trying to dislodge her, but she clung to him as tenaciously as a badger._

"_Fine, fine, I give up!" he mewed finally, collapsing in a heap. She released him immediately and sprang back with a grin._

"_I knew it," she crowed, then performed her duck-and-roll move as he tried to surprise her with another jump. He missed, plowing nose-first into the dirt. The gray kit spat out a mouthful of earth and turned to look at her, green eyes twinkling._

"_You always beat me when we play warriors," he said, pretending to pout. "I'm the tom, I'm supposed to win! She-cats are supposed to lie around and raise kits."_

_She twitched her whiskers at him. "You know that's not my plan. I'm going to be a fierce warrior—"_

"_The fiercest in the Clan—" he continued, knowing her line by heart._

"_The strongest—"_

"_The swiftest—"_

"_The one with the biggest head," he joked, then rolled his eyes when she glared at him. "I mean, the most renowned warrior in the entire forest."_

_She nodded. "And someday Robinflight will make me her deputy. And when I become leader, I will name you _my _deputy, oh noble and loyal Eaglekit."_

_He frowned. "Why can't I be leader?"_

"_Because I beat you whenever we play warriors, remember?" she teased, before flicking her thick white tail against his flank. "Someday you'll be bigger than me. Both our mothers say that; you've got big paws, and you'll be one of the strongest warriors in the Clan. But I will be the smartest and the wisest, so I'll make the best leader. As deputy, you'll enforce my orders and make sure everyone does as I say. It's a big responsibility...and someday you'll be leader too, once you've learned enough!"_

"_I guess that sounds okay," Eaglekit mewed, flicking his ear. "I think you'd make a good leader."_

_She beamed at him, before frowning as she tried to come up with a new game, as a leader should. Her eyes traced over ThunderClan's dry camp, noting the several branches that had fallen from the trees above during a windstorm only a few days ago. The camp was still being touches by gusts now and then, which helped to stir up the thick, warm air._

_Her green eyes gleamed as they settled upon two large branches that had landed in the shape of a cross. The branch on top was pointing up at the sky at an angle, like the jutting jaw of a mountain's cliff._

_She hurried towards it, springing onto the branch without a trace of fear. The incline was rather steep for one of her size, but she dug her claws into the rough bark and pulled herself to the tip of the branch. It dipped down slightly underneath her weight, but the branch below it kept it from shifting too far._

_From atop the branch she was a little higher than the heads of most warriors, but to her it felt as though she was crouching in the tallest tree in the forest. She opened her mouth to catch the air, imagining the entire forest being laid out before her. She pictured a hoard of warriors at her back, waiting for her signal before they plunged down to FourTrees for a moonlit Gathering._

_Just then, one of the gusts stirred, rushing through camp and kicking up the fallen leaves. The wind flew into her face, running over her back and down her belly. It was so strong that it actually lifted her two front paws, and for a moment she was balancing only on her hind legs and the wind. She let out a mewl of delight; for a moment, she felt completely weightless, like a bird in the sky._

She shifted in her sleep, bringing her tail closer to her nose, then sneezed as the hairs irritated her muzzle. The sneeze jolted her awake, and it took her a moment to make sense of the dimly lit warrior's den and the bodies sleeping all around her. The memory had felt very real, as such dreams often did, and it was hard to convince her sleep-addled mind that she was no longer a kit.

Still thinking of the dream – one of her favorite memories – she absentmindedly reached down to lick her stomach. As soon as her tongue made contact with her belly she froze, then jerked away, inwardly cursing herself. Such unconscious movements would give her away. She'd kept her secret for a moon and a half now, and the time for sharing was drawing near, but she wanted to be the one to voice it, not to have the other warriors guess it from her mistakes.

_It really is time, _she thought, rising to her paws and slipping out of the den. _I've kept it from him for long enough...and the Clan as well. I need to speak to Robinflight about all of this, for she will surely become Robinstar soon, and I don't want to miss my chance. _

The ambition of becoming deputy still burned fiercely in her heart; nothing had been done to dampen the flame. Rather, Robinflight had encouraged her aspirations, pressing her to train as hard as she could in hopes that she would be chosen. She was blessed to have had ThunderClan's deputy as her mentor, a blessing that would soon bear fruit, when old Oakstar finally passed.

She forced herself to take a deep breath and glanced around the camp, but the tom she was looking for was nowhere to be found. Her eyes settled on Birchstream, his mother, and she approached the aging silver she-cat with caution.

"Do you know where Eagletalon is?" she asked. Birchstream blinked, looking vacant for a moment, before nodding.

"He went hunting, I think, out there somewhere," she mewed, sounding distant. Her ears flattened – Birchstream was going rather senile, truth be told, but Eagletalon would not hear of it – and she dipped her head to the silver tabby before padding toward the camp's entrance.

She opened her mouth and scented the air, searching for his scent. She tilted her head as she caught it, along with the scent of another warrior. Her lip curled with distaste as she recognized the other scent to be Maplepelt's, a young golden she-cat. She and Maplepelt had never gotten along, for whatever reason.

Her gaze flicked back to a patch of ferns, and after a moment's pause she rolled in them to hide her own scent. This was a private affair, and she didn't want to alert anyone but Eagletalon of her secret. Not yet, at least.

She trotted forward, moving swiftly through the undergrowth. To her surprise, she recognized the path Eagletalon was taking. It would run near their old hiding place, an old fox's den. It was their secret meeting place, their own private den where they could do whatever they liked without every having anyone else know.

She closed her eyes, allowing the familiar scents to wash over her.

"_Are you sure the ShadowClan apprentices will be there?" Eaglepaw asked, his green eyes wide with anxiety._

"_They promised they would be," she mewed, brushing her tail against his flank. "Their kits have been stolen too, remember...but no one is doing anything about it. That's why it's up to us, to break into the rogues' camp and steal them back! The ShadowClan apprentices want to be warriors as much as we do."_

It had been a foolish attempt, of course; even with the help of the ShadowClan apprentices, they had nearly gotten themselves killed by the rogues that had stolen the Clans' kits. If it hadn't been for two of the rogues abruptly switching sides and helping them all to escape, all four apprentices might easily have died. Still, they had gotten the kits back, and the Clan had been proud.

"_The dog's chasing off all of our prey," she mewed to him. Her white coat gleamed in the murky light of the den. "We have to run it off, or it might charge into camp and attack, or run through other territories. We need to set a trap for it, with a rabbit or something, and then chase it away."_

_Eaglepaw nodded. He didn't have any concerns to voice this time; his faith in her was strong, and it warmed her heart to see him blinking at her with such trust in his green eyes._

Fighting the dog had gone better, since they had surprised it by attacking from the trees. Still, they had both been injured. Eagletalon still had a scar over his chest where one of the dog's flailing paws had kicked him.

But fighting the dog had earned them their warrior names, so neither of them could really complain, and it was a story that ThunderClan's kits loved to hear. She smiled at the memory of so many young eyes blinking up at her with wonder and amazement.

And then, of course, the den had been the center of...other events. It was where Eaglepaw had first told her that he loved her, moons ago, and it was where she had turned him away. Back then, she had been so focused on becoming the next deputy that nothing else mattered. She wouldn't let anything, even her own happiness, get in her way. In her mind, she was the best – no, the _only_ – candidate for becoming ThunderClan's next deputy.

Of course, two moons ago, when Oakstar had been starting to make a recovery she had reconsidered. For a brief time, she had pushed her own ambitions aside and given herself to Eagletalon. It had been more amazing that she had ever thought possible, but when Oakstar's health had taken another blow she had broken it off once again. She was torn between her ambition and her love for Eagletalon, stuck between two dreams.

Her stomach clenched, and she paused for a moment to lick her belly, before continuing on her way. Her decision had been made for her, in the end.

_Or perhaps not, _she thought, still clinging to hope. _Robinflight will understand. Perhaps once Oakstar passes, she can appoint a temporary deputy – Eagletalon? - who will step down once I am fit to be a warrior again. She knows I would be the most loyal deputy that ThunderClan ever had._

She was drawing quite close to the old fox den now, still following Eagletalon and Maplepelt's scents. She frowned to herself; Eagletalon was drawing dangerously close to their old haunt. It was only a coincidence, surely, but she found herself more anxious the closer they got.

Then, she froze, as low sounds reached her ears. She crept forward, lowering her belly to the ground and pricking her ears. The fox den rose before her, its dark maw gaping from between two thick roots. She saw the flick of a gray tail from within, and heard the tinkling of Maplepelt's laughter.

The realization shot through her like a bolt of lightning just as pain rippled through her abdomen. She gasped, and scrambled backwards before turning and racing into the forest.

_He...and Maplepelt, _she thought, her breath coming in sharp pants. _In our secret place...he said he loved me, he said..._

Her breath was quickening, and she felt as though her heart was ready to burst from her chest. She leaped into the air, flying over a fallen log, and as she did so another ripple of pain ran through her.

_No, not now, _she thought with bewilderment, slowing down as the sound of running water reached her ears. _It's all wrong, all wrong...I was going to tell him, he was going to be so happy, and I was going to tell Robinflight..._

She burst from the forest's cover, her paws touching the warm surface of the Sunningrocks. Her sides heaved, not from exertion but from fear and confusion. _What do I do? I can't face him now, not after he...with her, in our place..._

She shook her head, trying to think, but her brain couldn't make sense of the situation. In desperation she entered the swiftly flowing river. The icy sharpness pierced her fur, clearing her mind instantaneously, replacing her emotions with bitter cold.

_No one knows but me. I've managed to keep this a secret for nearly two moons now. I can keep it a secret for my entire life, if I must._

_I promised my mother that I would become the deputy. I promised myself the same, when I was only a kit. It has always been my goal, my aim...I was foolish, terribly foolish, to let my feelings for him get in the way...and he has betrayed me._

Her claws dug into the stones underneath the water's surface, and she bowed her head as more pain ran through her.

A plan slowly formed in her mind, one of her impossible, insane, successful plans. She had never allowed herself to fail before. She wouldn't allow it now.

She ducked underneath the surface, feeling the current tug at her whiskers, letting the chill creep in through her fur, into her heart. Then, her head broke the water and she turned towards the bank, her green eyes narrowed with her plan in mind.

Ignoring the growing pain in her stomach, she trekked back to the old fox den. Eagletalon and Maplepelt were gone; her gasp must have frightened them off.

She ducked inside, and didn't flinch even as the old, familiar scents washed over her. Any pang or remorse vanished under the influence of the ice that had gripped her, and carefully she set about her work. Maplepelt – beautiful, swift, foolish Maplepelt – had left her golden fur strewn all about the den. This was obviously not the first time the golden she-cat had tread here, on this sacred ground, but it would be the last.

She gathered the golden fur, being careful not to leave any mark on the ground or her own fur behind, and scooped it into a leaf which she then grasped in her jaws. She padded back to Sunningrocks, laid the leaf down beside her, and spread out over the warm stones. She waited for the pain within her to grow, and for the event that had been set in motion two moons ago to complete itself.

. . .

She stared into the fox den, her bones aching with weariness. Her wet fur was plastered against her sides; she had been forced to take another dip in the river, to wash away the blood. She couldn't return to camp, not until her fur dried. Thanks to the beating sun, even her thick pelt was becoming dry and full again. Any trace of the crime would evaporate with the water.

She took in a deep breath, and old scents surrounded her, marred by Maplepelt's own. She closed her eyes, trying to block it out, pulling at her old memories of Eagletalon. But they failed to surface, failed to bring her any sense of comfort, and it was with great resignation that she opened them again.

What was done was done. Eagletalon had made his choice, and she had made hers. She would be blameless in what had occurred at Sunningrocks. She would be rid of Maplepelt soon enough. She would reclaim Eagletalon. She would be ThunderClan's deputy.

She reached down and licked her belly, which was so much lighter than before, and felt a gust of wind run over her fur. She tilted her head towards it, and even without being as tiny as a kit, she still felt weightless.

**AN: Another one of our Sinners, obviously. Shouldn't be too hard to figure out too, considering there's only one kitty from ThunderClan, among other things. I actually had this finished a long time ago but I was waiting until after Sootpaw had spoken to her to post it; unfortunately that's been pushed back in favor of another Sinner, so I decided to just go ahead and post it now.**

**Hopefully this was the right balance of confusing and understandable? More will make sense when we get to her story in Chilled, but I think there's still enough here to infer the basics.**


	18. 17 Just Say It

**17. Just Say It**

All around her were yowls, of pain, fear, and anger. The scent of blood rose like a red tide, threatening to consume her. Cats warm bodies were pressed against her side as they scrambled for footing on the sloped ground. She was pushed and pummeled as cats spun to face each other, as they dove and snarled and slashed at one another, caught up in their fury.

And yet despite all the mayhem and the malevolence in the air, she was untouched.

It was almost as though she was invisible. She picked her way through the battle with careful, practiced ease. She knew the territory well, after all. She had grown up in this forest. What had once been silent and pristine was scorched and splashed by blood. It was the fault of the outsiders. They had ruined everything.

Or, almost everything. There were some things the new Clan could not be blamed for. No, her Clan had been slipping long before the interlopers had arrived. Some even believed the new Clan might restore them to their former glory, in some twisted way. She didn't care. Both Clans could burn anew for all she cared. Her own had turned her back on her. They had scorned her. They would regret it.

She had already been feeding the enemy information. She had already told their leader, that great and mighty golden tom, who to watch out for. A sickening smile twisted her muzzle as she thought of her brother, Sandpelt. He would get his due. Lion would be looking for him, and when he found him her brother's end would be swift and merciless. It was what he deserved for turning his back on her. Everyone had turned their back on her, but his rejection had stung the most. Didn't blood ties mean anything to him anymore?

For a moment, her concentration on picking the cleanest path through the raging battle slipped, and someone stumbled into her. She turned, and met unbelieving amber eyes, set in dark brown fur. Her gaze flitted down to his chest, and sure enough there was that white blaze she knew so well.

"Blazingfoot," she said. He said nothing, simply continuing to stare at her as if he was looking at a ghost.

"You're really on their side, aren't you?" he asked. "Dapplefern, why? How can you turn on your Clanmates?"

"How could you turn on _me?" _she snarled, and for a moment forgot her real mission. She threw herself at him with a hiss, and he allowed himself to be struck. They tumbled to the ground, writhing and struggling for control, until he ended up on top of her. He stared down at her, his amber eyes clouded with pain. And she remembered

_Pressing her pelt against Rosekit's and letting out a quiet giggle._

"_No, he doesn't like me. He likes you," she purred in the dappled kit's ear. The two of them tittered, watching Sandkit and Blazingkit roll in the dust, each trying to outdo the other._

"_We'll see about that," Rosekit whispered, her eyes glowing with mischief. "Blazingkit! Hey!"_

_Blazingkit ignored her, pressing his belly to the ground just as Sandkit sprang at him. Sandkit missed, and Blazingkit sprang up to tackle him before Sandkit could recover._

"_Just say it," Rosekit mewed, nudging Dapplekit with her shoulder._

"_Blazingkit!" Dapplekit yowled, and instantly Blazingkit froze, his amber eyes searching for hers. He gave her a brilliant smile, only to yelp as Sandkit took the opportunity to throw him to the ground._

"_What did I tell you?" Rosekit asked, her blue eyes glittering like gems as Dapplekit rubbed her muzzle against her soft gray fur._

"Fool," Dapplefern hissed, and kicked up with all her might. Blazingfoot flew into the air and landed in a heap. Dapplefern flung out her paws, feeling her claws slice into his shoulders as he struggled to stand. She forced him down, pinning him beneath her and slashed him to ribbons without mercy. Blazingfoot writhed underneath of her, yowling with pain, but Dapplefern took no heed of his agony. In the back of her mind she knew this shouldn't be possible, that he should have managed to get away from her – he was far stronger than she was, after all. And yet, for some reason, he was hardly putting up any semblance of a fight at all.

It wasn't until he went limp underneath of her that she remembered her original mission. She took a step back, her flanks heaving from exertion, and wiped her claws on the grass. Without another look at Blazingfoot's twitching body, she returned her attention to the Peak. Ignoring the turmoil around her, she charged forward, her paws tearing over the fallen leaves and bloodied earth.

She crossed the river with a single leap – it was still running lower than normal – and set her sights on the top of the Peak. She thought she saw dark shapes moving against the silhouette of the blackened trees, but couldn't be certain. She was sure someone would have been left behind to guard the Peak – after all, the medicine cats from both AshClan and PeakClan would be cowering there, waiting for the battle to end, along with the queens. That was the reason she was here, for one queen in particular.

She started to climb the winding path to the Peak's top, but paused as her eyes lingered on the spot where Lightstar had fallen and died. He had spiraled into madness and thrown himself off of the cliff, or at least that was what they had been told.

There was no trace of his passing, not even the smallest speck of blood or tuft of golden fur. The spray from the pounding waterfall had erased any sign of his death.

Her eyes flitted a little farther down the river, to where PeakClan's side rose over the rushing river. It was where Rosedapple had attempted to kill herself, but of course it had been home to many more memories, too many for her to count.

_They crouched against the slope, pressing their bellies flat against the grass, not wanting to be seen. It was unlikely that anyone would spot them, with the waning moon flickering so weakly above their heads, but the two apprentices weren't taking any chances. _

_She glanced to her left, and saw Rosepaw grinning at her. The two of them giggled, united by their daring to break the Clan's rules and sneak off, away from the safety of the Peak, in the middle of the night. There were stories of all sorts of terrible creatures lurking in the forest – huge badgers, hungry foxes, and worse – but the two of them had never seen any such monsters, and they were not afraid. Dapplepaw knew Rosepaw would defend her with her life, and she would do the same for her gray friend._

"_There he is," she whispered, her voice flushed with excitement. Rosepaw lifted her head, straining to see Lightheart's golden body. He was crouching, intent on some sort of prey that only he could see. The two of them giggled together, and as one crept farther up the slope to get a better view. Dapplepaw's pelt tingled furiously at seeing how sleek Lightheart's coat was, how his muscles rippled so keenly underneath his fur, the careful precision with which he stalked his prey._

"_He's going to make the best deputy," Dapplepaw murmured, a note of awe hanging from her words like a spider on a silken thread._

_Rosepaw whispered her agreement, and the two of them watched Lightheart disappear from view. Dapplepaw gave a contented sigh._

"_We're going to be mates some day," she said with certainty. _

"_You're going to have all the toms padding after you when you're a warrior," Rosepaw mewed. "Can I have Blazingpaw, if you don't want him?"_

_Dapplepaw nodded, feeling generous in granting the brown tom to her friend. "Sure. And you two can hang out with me and Lightheart if you want. We can all have fun together, it'll be great."_

"_Just say it," Rosepaw meowed. "All you have to do is tell him you like him. If you don't, someone else will. He won't say no. You're too pretty."_

_Dapplepaw let out a low purr, and Rosepaw pressed her muzzle against her golden shoulder, before she rose to return to camp._

Dapplefern shivered at the memory, the trace excitement and optimism lingering in her mind. It hadn't turned out that way, obviously. Rosedapple had been the one to snare Lightstar's attention. Dapplefern shuddered with the feelings of betrayal and anger that still burned deep within her. The breaking of that dream had been what had shattered their friendship, and everything else. Dapplefern had been obsessed with pulling Lightstar and Rosedapple apart, and it was with her gentle nudging that Graywing had eventually ventured forth with her own feelings of love for the golden tom. It had all ended in such glorious disaster, and Dapplefern had been there to witness the entire thing, even Rosedapple and Lightstar's last falling out. Rosedapple was a broken shell after that.

And yet, she still had so much more than Dapplefern. In her obsession, the golden she-cat had let everything else slip away. She and her brother hardly spoke, Blazingfoot no longer glanced in her direction, at least not when she was looking, and Lightstar had too many problems to even consider paying her a bit of attention. Gaining an apprentice had been her only triumph, but Rabbitpaw was a hopeless case, jumpy and jittery, impossible to keep focused for more than a day or two.

And Rosedapple's belly grew bigger each day with Lightstar's kits, the kits the dappled queen no longer even wanted, while Dapplefern watched on with envy. She bared her fangs, thinking of how Rosedapple had still been doted on by Blackmoon, even when the black tom knew Rosedapple didn't love him…and how her pathetic, forlorn existence had caught the attention of Northstar, the strange newcomer. He had spurned Dapplefern's affections, rejected her entirely, and then gone so far as to steal Rabbitpaw away from her as well.

Her tail lashed from side to side. Well, those past transgressions didn't matter now. She and Rosedapple would have their last confrontation. Dapplefern was stronger than Rosedapple, she was filled with spirit, and she was ready. She would do what needed to be done, and her so-called friend would die at her paws.

_We'll see how Northstar likes that, _she thought with relish, swiping her tongue over her fangs. _Those fools…maybe I'll take on the other queens too, from AshClan, and the medicine cats…I can take them all down. Nothing can stop me. PeakClan will rue the day they turned their backs on me!_

She charged up the winding path to the cap of the Peak, slowing only as she neared the edge of the stony plateau. Her breath caught as she recognized the two guards, and she let out a low purr, marveling at her luck. Blackmoon and Rosedapple were sitting there, side by side, their sharp eyes watching for any danger. They hadn't spotted her yet, not with her dusty golden coat mixing so well with the Peak's earthy tones. She pressed her belly to the ground as she and Rosepaw had so many moons ago, and crept forward.

There was another scent on the breeze, some rogue smell that Dapplefern didn't recognize, but it didn't matter. All of her attention, all of her energy, was focused on the dappled queen.

Blackmoon stiffened, and Dapplefern realized he must have caught her scent. It didn't matter: she could handle a medicine cat along with the queen.

She sprang out at them, her fur bristling. Instantly Blackmoon moved forward, stepping in front of Rosedapple protectively.

"What are you doing here, traitor?" he growled, his icy blue eyes narrowed. Her gaze flicked down to the blaze on his chest – so much like his brother's – and she allowed herself a quiet purr, before hissing,

"This doesn't concern you, Blackmoon. I came here to speak to Rosedapple."

Blackmoon opened his mouth for a retort, but Rosedapple nosed him to the side. She stepped forward, meeting Dapplefern's sharp gaze with her own blue eyes. She seemed stronger than Dapplefern remembered, more _there _somehow; her old confidence glittered in her sapphire eyes, and there wasn't a trace of anxiety on her face.

_Always so bold, so fearless, _Dapplefern thought bitterly. _Everything was easy for you, wasn't it? You had everything, until I took it all away, and even then…._

"Why?" Rosedapple's voice was soft, almost mournful. "Why did you do it? Why did you betray our Clan to those rogues?"

"Why?" Dapplefern snarled. "PeakClan turned away from me. They ignored me. They didn't value me for what I am. I worked my entire life to make PeakClan proud, and what do I have to show for it? Absolutely nothing!"

"You're covered in blood, and not all of it is your own," Rosedapple said. "Is it the blood of your Clanmates? The blood of cats that you trained and fought beside, rather than against?"

"Don't you preach at me," Dapplefern spat. "You're no better. You're a coward."

"I was," Rosedapple meowed, her voice becoming steely. "I'm not anymore. I'm not afraid of you anymore."

Dapplefern blinked at her in disbelief. Rosedapple? Afraid of _her?_

"You're still a coward," she hissed. "You still aren't brave enough to say what you really think of me. But I know."

Rosedapple actually seemed puzzled, and Dapplefern let out another hiss; it was a ruse believable enough to fool other cats, but Dapplefern knew better.

"What do you mean?" Rosedapple asked. "I always thought of you as my friend, Dapplefern, until you pushed me away. You retreated into yourself, you had eyes for no one but Lightstar…it was disturbing, and upsetting, but I never thought badly of you…not until you starting turning that anger on me instead."

Dapplefern snorted. "Liar!" she declared with a frenzied shake of her head. "Liar! I know what you think of me. Just say it! Isn't that what you always used to tell me? Just say it! Tell me what you think of me! You don't have to hide it anymore. We aren't Clanmates, we aren't friends. You were always jealous of me. That's why you stole Lightstar away from me. I told you that you could have Blazingfoot. Wasn't he enough? Or did you hate me so much, thought me so despicable and worthless, that you had to take Lightstar too?"

Blackmoon seemed incredulous, and Rosedapple took a step back, as if stung by her words. Then, her blue eyes clouded with sympathy.

"I never wanted to hurt you—" she started to say, but Dapplefern cut her off with another hiss.

"I can't stomach your lies anymore!" Dapplefern spat, her tail lashing from side to side. "I'll tear them right out of you, here and now!"

And then she let out a yowl even louder than the roar of the waterfall as it hurled itself into the gorge below them, just as she flung herself at Rosedapple. Rosedapple's blue eyes widened with shock, but she made no move to defend herself, made no move to pull away. Dapplefern's eyes glittered with triumph as she stretched out her claws, eager to sink them into Rosedapple's fur, but suddenly there was a terrible pain in her side and all of the breath was kicked out of her. She flew backwards, towards the waterfall, and went over the edge of the Peak.

She reached out with desperation and somehow managed to latch onto the stone ledge. She clung to it like a frightened kit, wheezing for breath. Her head seemed to be swimming, but whether it was from the terrible pain in her stomach or the pounding of the waterfall, she couldn't be sure. She glanced downwards, and saw the river churning below her.

Blackmoon and Rosedapple's faces appeared above her, but Dapplefern's vision seemed to be slipping. She saw Rosedapple's mouth move, saw their paws dipping down towards her, but she couldn't tell if they were trying to pull her up or knock her paws off of the ledge. Her head continued to pound with the beating of her heart, and she was suddenly aware of how tired she was, how bone-achingly weary she was of all of this, the subterfuge and the lies and the loneliness and the pain. And somehow, her grip slipped – maybe it was the mist from the waterfall that made the rock so slippery – and she was falling.

Her instincts urged her to twist around, to prepare herself for the fall, but as the water rushed up towards her face she knew that no preparation would save her. The moment she hit the water, she'd be dead, just as Lightstar had been when he had hit those jagged stones. She almost wanted to cling to that thought, to convince herself that she would be following him up into the stars, but she knew that even that possibility had been stolen from her, in the end.

Before she smashed into the river, she thought she heard someone above her call her name.

**AN: You might remember from the Epilogue to Shattered that Blazingfoot later dies from his wounds. He and Blackmoon were bros, but they didn't talk much. **

**Blackmoon and Rosedapple are guarding the Peak (instead of the apprentices) because Ravenwing's currently kitting. It was a messy, tiring ordeal, and they didn't want the apprentices listening to any of it, so they stuck them all in the medicine den to sort herbs and stuff. Blackmoon has no experience delivering kits, so he couldn't do much to help, and Rose needed some space, since the last kitting she witnessed was Graywing's, which of course didn't end well. **


	19. 18 Last Words

**18. Last Words**

He rested his head on his paws, eyes closed, listening to Bluekit and Redkit's idle chatter. They were trying to engage him, as they had for the past few days, ever since he had saved them from the badger that had killed Bramblethorn. He didn't want to listen to their babbling. The words of kits held nothing interesting for him. They were too baffled by their own emotions to say anything rational, and even if they had been capable of rational thought neither of them knew anything that enticed him. They were still young, and naïve despite their recent brush with death. He knew Redkit was eying him with something akin to how he might look at a cat from StarClan, but that didn't interest him either. Hero worship was a dull concept for the fleet-minded apprentice. It was another idea that was driven solely by turbulent feelings, feelings that left as easily as they came. Redkit's feelings wouldn't last, certainly not after tonight.

For it would be tonight, that much he knew. No one had spoken to him about the impending ceremony, but he could smell it on the air. It only made sense that it would be tonight that he would become a warrior. Yes, he was quite young, but he was advanced for his age. Lion had started training him as a kit, and his knack for picking up details and remarkable focus meant that progress was easy for him. He was more than ready, but his latest act of heroism had secured his position as a future warrior in the Clan.

It wasn't hard to read Silverstar, after all. She had come to visit him the past few days, while he was confined to the medicine den to treat his words. Her blue eyes had sparkled with pleasure and pride while she had blinked down at him, but whether it was because he was her nephew or apprentice he wasn't sure. Perhaps it was both. Sometimes the direct causes of emotions were hard for him to pinpoint.

Either way, every time she had held a sort of eagerness within her, and she had asked Rumble and Shimmerpaw about his healing progress with a trace of excitement. Logically, there were very few other things that would cause her to be so eager for him to heal. She enjoyed training with him, or so he assumed, but they had been training for moons now, and there would be no reason for their continued training to elect that sort of response.

He yawned and opened his eyes, curling his tongue and stretching to loosen up his muscles. Shimmerpaw and Rumble had given him the clean bill of health that very morning, a fact that had made Silverstar seem ecstatic. She had tried to keep it from him, but with his sharp eyes it had been unmistakable.

"Are you excited?" Bluekit asked eagerly; apparently news of his coming ceremony had spread to even the kits.

"No," he said, giving her an icy stare. With most cats, it dampened any enthusiasm or desire to speak with him that they held, but for whatever reason it didn't seem to work on the bubbly little kit.

"I would be, if it was me," she mewed, rolling onto her back. "I can't wait to become a medicine apprentice."

He blinked, feeling surprised for once. "A medicine apprentice? Shimmerpaw holds that position."

"Yeah, I know…but not for long. Rumble's going to go away soon, isn't he? Like Bramblethorn." Her blue eyes clouded over for a moment, as if she was still having a hard time understanding exactly what had happened to the brown tom. She and Redkit had taken to sleeping wherever Chillpaw did, and several times he had heard her wake up in the middle of the night mewling the brown warrior's name.

"Shimmerpaw will be a medicine cat soon, and I'll be her apprentice," Bluekit said, then cocked her head to the side. "How come you never call her your sister? You always call her Shimmerpaw."

"It is her name."

"Yeah, but I call Redkit my brother sometimes…." Bluekit trailed off as if puzzled, before her blue eyes lit up again. "Do you know what you're going to say?"

Chillpaw frowned. "Don't most new warriors simply say 'I do?' Why would I need to say anything else?"

Bluekit frowned. "Well, whatever you say right before that will be your last words as an apprentice. Don't you want them to be special? Bramblethorn says that he always imagined that apprentices would want to give a speech before they became warriors, something to show they understand what a big transition it is. You're going to be the first of the apprentices to become a warrior, right? Thistlepaw is still pretty far away."

Chillpaw blinked to himself. A speech? He hadn't even considered it. He supposed there might be time for it, but he'd have to speak quickly…and what would he say? There was little he could mention that wouldn't cause cats to become alarmed, and that might interfere with his plan to kill Silverstar. He had to be swift and accurate if he wanted to take her life before anyone else intervened.

And then once he had done so, he would be killed. That much was obvious. He couldn't murder their beloved Silverstar without suffering some retaliation, and the only thing that made sense for a group of ex-rogues to do to take revenge would be to kill him.

Perhaps there would be time, between his slaying of Silverstar and his own death. He might have time to speak a few words. What he would say, he didn't know. What was there to say, really? Murdering Silverstar was a strike for Lion. He didn't have anything against Silverstar himself. He didn't care much about the Clan, either. He wouldn't even be truly murdering Silverstar, since she still had plenty of lives remaining. She would recover and return to leading her Clan just as she had before he arrived. Sure, it would have some effects on her psyche, but that wasn't his problem.

"I don't think I'll say anything," he meowed finally. "There's nothing for me to say."

"You could say something about Bramblethorn," Bluekit mewed, a trace of shyness in her voice. "I know you didn't know him very well, but…I really miss him, and I think he would like to know we're thinking of him."

"Perhaps," Chillpaw said; he had no intention of speaking about Bramblethorn at all, for he had hardly cared at all about the brown tom, but anything to keep Bluekit quiet sounded like a good idea.

Redkit had been silent for their entire discussion, simply watching his idol with wide amber eyes. Chillpaw had to resist the urge to curl his lip at the young tom; he held nothing but disdain for cats that allowed themselves to be led by their perceived image of another cat.

Someone wiser than he might have pointed out that he was doing the same thing, by seeking to avenge Lion, but of course there was no such cat to voice such an opinion. Despite the two kits, Chillpaw was alone.

Then, a shape filled the entrance, casting a shadow over his face. He turned to find Silverstar beaming down at him, radiating pride.

"I'm sure you've already heard, but if you haven't, you're going to be made a warrior," she purred, bending down to lick his ear. He withstood the gesture without complaint.

"Congratulations, Chillpaw. I'm really proud of you; I know you had a hard time growing up, and you still have some things you need to work on, but I know you'll make a good warrior," she continued, then laughed quietly. "I'll admit, a few cats had their doubts about accepting you, but I think you've turned their minds around. I told them all you needed was a second chance to shine."

She nuzzled him again, and Chillpaw resisted the urge to pull away from her touch. IT was wrong, somehow, to have her seem so affectionate and happy, when in less than an hour she would be bleeding out, losing one of her remaining lives.

He rose to his paws. "I'm ready."

Silverstar stopped smiling for a moment, and her expression became more somber. "I know."

She looked more like a serious leader than a mentor or aunt now, and Chillpaw's eyes followed her as she turned and left the den, heading for the BranchPile.

"Let's watch the ceremony," Bluekit squeaked eagerly to Redkit, but Chillpaw blocked her path.

"The ceremonies are only for those who can catch their own prey," he said. "It's part of the title. You two both attempted it, and failed, resulting in Bramblethorn's death. I don't think you have earned the right to watch the ceremony."

Pain and hurt flashed over the kits' faces, but he was no longer paying them any attention, padding out of the den and turning to stare at the BranchPile. He paused for only a moment, checking over his shoulder to make sure the kits were not watching. He didn't see the gleam of their bright eyes in the gloomy mouth of the den. Satisfied, his gaze flicked back up to Silverstar.

He wasn't sure why he had said such things to the kits. He hadn't done it to be cruel; that would be pointless. He hadn't done it to make them stop worshipping him so; his next actions would take care of that issue. So then, why? Why had he convinced the kits not to watch what they thought would be his crowning moment, but what would become a horrific event that would shock the Clan?

In truth, he wasn't certain. Perhaps it had something to do with that small stirring he had felt when Silverstar had licked his ear and then nuzzled him, how she had given him praise. It was a tiny thing, really, just the slightest fluttering of his heart. It reminded him of how Lion had praised him after a successful catch or worthy jab.

He shook himself. Sentimentality did not become him. He had a task to focus on, and if his concentration slipped, there was a good chance that his efforts would bear no fruit. He had to slay Silverstar, to avenge Lion's own death.

Silverstar was addressing the Clan now, and when she announced his name he moved forward. Most cats stood near the BranchPile, but he allowed his front paws to rest on it, providing the leverage he would need when the time came. None of his Clanmates would think much of it; he was thin and smaller than the average cat his age, after all. Most of them probably wouldn't even notice. Their mistake.

She continued to speak, but he allowed his mind to wander. For once, the details didn't matter. In a few minutes, everything would be over. He had planned this moment for moons, down to these last few moments. He had trained tirelessly to prove himself, and had wandered the forest for days on end searching for some sort of event that he could use to prove his apparent heroic resolve. Everything was finally coming together, and yet he felt no joy.

He wasn't sure if he had been expecting any, really. When he had told Lion about the badger that had killed his mother and seen Lion return, bloody but victorious, from the ensuing battle, he had felt a small amount of pleasure knowing that he had settled the score for his mother. He was expecting more from this attack of Silverstar. After all, his mother had been mad, and it had simply been luck that she had grabbed him over Shimmerpaw that night, when she had ran away in an effort to flee from the monsters that plagued her restless mind. Lion, on the other paw, had _chosen _him. Lion had cared for him, trained him, _raised _him. If there was any cat in the world that Chillpaw cared at all for, it would have been Lion.

But Silverstar had chosen him too, in a strange way. She had allowed him to join the Clan. She had picked him as her apprentice. She had trained him to become a warrior. She had tried to raise him into a cat worthy of respect, even admiration. He did not care for her as he did Lion, but perhaps if he looked deeply enough within himself, he might find some inkling of trust? Of respect? Even kinship?

Then, she spoke the words, the words that would force him to make a choice. Famous last words, really.

"Chillpaw, do you promise to uphold the warrior code, and to protect and defend your Clan, even at the cost of your life?"

_Anything you'd like to say? _He asked himself, remembering Bluekit's words. _Any last comment to the Clan before you attempt to murder their leader?_

There was not, and yet he found that he could not move. He stared down at his paws, wondering if some mystic force had managed to root them to the ground. He felt frozen, as chilled as his own heart.

This was the moment, the telling time. He had a choice, he realized. He could attack Silverstar now, and die, then take his chances in the afterlife. Or he could say those words, just two tiny words, 'I do.' - barely even a breath, really, - and be named a warrior. He would be accepted into the Clan, Bluekit and Redkit would follow him with dogged determination, Silverstar would watch over him with the same kind love that her eyes were glowing with right now. He could turn his back on Lion, the only father he had ever known, and become a true warrior of AshClan.

He felt a strange longing sensation, deep within him, and realized that somehow part of him _wanted _that life, _wanted _to be accepted, even liked. It wasn't rational – cats could survive without being liked, without a group to look after them – but he felt it just the same. He was puzzled and wistful and disgusted with himself at the same time, an overwhelmingly confusion for the icy tom.

He gave a mental shake of his head and clung onto that fundamental principle of his, balance. Balancing life and death, comfort and pain, light and dark had never led him astray. He certainly hadn't had an easy life, but it had been one that he had understood. Upsetting that balance by not avenging Lion was unthinkable for him. It would require him turning his back on everything he had ever believed. As much as he wanted, longed for, _desired _that other life, it was one that was much too complicated and strange for a cat like him, whose heart was frozen, unthawable.

He lifted his head, and stared Silverstar in the eyes. She stared back at him, and he thought he saw the faintest flicker of confusion in her eyes. No fear, no, not yet. That would come in a moment.

"No," he said, and before she could say anything, Silverstar fell back with a cry as he charged into her. One paw smacked his shoulder feebly, but Silverstar didn't have time to defend herself as his fangs sank into her throat. Salty blood seemed to explode in his mouth, and Silverstar stopped struggling. He released her and she gurgled something, before her eyes clouded over.

He only had an instant to stare down at her seemingly lifeless body, before he was jerked back by strong jaws. It was Eaglestrike, pulling him away from his fallen leader with frightening intensity. Chillpaw allowed himself to be dragged, ignoring the pain in his neck and the unpleasant sensation of his dragging paws. Then, the deputy dropped him to rush to Silverstar's side.

The camp was alive with sounds of horror and shock, but to Chillpaw it was completely silent. He heard nothing as Stormshadow rushed forward to pin him down, wasn't even aware when he spat into the gray warrior's face. Stormshadow's amber eyes glowed with anger, and for the first time in moons, Chillpaw smiled.

_This is the end, _he thought, feeling almost as if he was already floating outside of his body. The weight of Lion's burden had slid off of him, leaving him feeling weightless and free, freer than he had since the golden tom had died.

_This is the end, _he thought again. _Any last words, Chillpaw?_

He found that he had none, but there was something else bubbling up inside of him, a terrible sort of mirth that spilled out of him faster than he could control it. He laughed in Stormshadow's furious face. He laughed at the Clan's pain and misery. He laughed at Silverstar's still body. He laughed at her ideas of second chances, of the Clan's faith that StarClan would protect them, at the idea of there being any fairness in the world at all.

He was laughing still when Stormshadow's fangs sank into his throat for the fatal blow.

**AN: Chilly. Baby. What the hell is wrong with you.**


	20. 19 Immature

**19. Immature**

"How could you be so foolish?"

His father stared down at him with grave yellow eyes. His face was hard, disapproving, and cold. The kit's own eyes slid down to his black paws, burning with shame.

"How could you be so irresponsible?" his father asked. "Boulderkit could have been killed."

"I know," the kit mumbled down to his paws. "I'm sorry, Father. We were just playing a game."

"A game that required you to get so close to the gorge's edge?" His father's voice was like jagged stone, sharp and inflexible. "I'm disappointed in you, Northkit. I expected more from you, but it's clear you're nothing more than another immature kit."

Northkit wanted to sink into the earth and disappear. "I'm sorry, Father," he murmured again, but Frozenstar took no notice of his feeble apology. The white tom shook his head.

"Leave my den," he ordered. "Stay close to the nursery, and stay away from the other kits for the rest of the week. I don't want you doing anything else so stupid and reckless again, do you understand?"

Northkit nodded miserably, before turning and slinking out of his father's den, feeling dejected and crushed. The sharp, rough stones tore at his soft kit pads, but he didn't complain, trying to be stoic, mature. He hated thinking that his father looked down on him. He knew he was a disappointment to the old white tom. Frozenstar told him that often enough, but even if he hadn't, it was obvious in the way that he ignored the young kit. Frozenstar was a leader first, commander second, and father last.

The other kits were staring at him as he exited the den, and his pelt prickled underneath their curious stares. Sharptalon, the tom that had saved Boulderkit from falling, was whispering something to the kits, and watching Northkit with caution. It was all the white kit could do to keep his composure, at least until he reached the nursery.

Once he reached his nest, he collapsed, pressing his nose against his aching paws and sniffling with misery. He hated being different from the other kits, hated being Frozenstar's son. The other kits treated him differently, like he was an outsider, and his father's actions didn't help. It was the first time in days that the other kits had let him play with them, and he had messed it up, as he always did.

"It wasn't my fault," he mumbled to his paws. "Birdkit was staring at me. I got nervous. I pushed Boulderkit too hard."

"What was that, Northkit?"

Northkit's ears pricked as the familiar voice, so warm and deep, reached his ears. A smile broke through his sniffles as he recognized the golden tom.

"Brackenheart!" he exclaimed, bumbling towards the golden warrior on unsteady paws. He pressed his nose against Brackenheart's foreleg. Brackenheart reached down and touched his nose against Northkit's shoulder, the way his father never did. Northkit's yellow eyes sparkled as they met Brackenheart's amber-gold gaze.

"What's this I've heard about you getting in trouble, hmm?" he asked, sitting down and curling his tail around his paws. Northkit copied his stance, trying to puff out his chest to match the warrior's thick, strong build.

He had forgotten his crime for a brief moment, but Brackenheart's mentioning of it made the shame rise to his face all over again. He stared down at his black paws, which contrasted so sharply with the rest of his white fur. His mother had been black all over, almost, and had the most brilliant blue eyes, according to what he had heard from the other cats in camp. Frozenstar never spoke of her, his beloved Sky, but other cats were more loose with their words. They didn't know how precious every detail was to Northkit, how he wanted to soak up everything he could about his mother, the elusive and mysterious Sky, who had died before he was born.

Northkit surviving had been a miracle, or a curse, depending on who he listened to. His mother had killed herself by leaping off of a ledge while pregnant with him, and only his father's quick action had allowed Northkit to see the light of day. He was the only kit to have survived the fall.

That seemed like a good enough reason for Frozenstar to love him, but for some reason Northkit had never received much affection from the white tom. He often wondered if things would be different if he had more of his mother's dark fur, or her blue eyes.

Brackenheart gave him a gentle nudge with his paw, and Northkit blinked as he realized he had been lost in his musings. He frowned down at his paws, then sighed.

"Boulderkit nearly fell off of the edge of the ledge," he mewed. "We were playing a fighting game and I pushed him too hard. Sharptalon saved him, but it was really close."

"Boulderkit could have been badly injured, if not killed," Brackenheart said. Northkit flinched, then felt Brackenheart's tail flick underneath his chin, forcing him to look the golden warrior in the eyes.

"I'm not saying that to make you feel bad," Brackenheart said. "I just want you to understand that your actions could have put Boulderkit in real danger, if it wasn't for Sharptalon."

"I know," Northkit sighed, and Brackenheart frowned.

"What was Sharptalon doing while you were playing?"

"He was watching us."

"And he didn't try to stop you until after you pushed Boulderkit?"

Northkit shook his head, and Brackenheart looked quite fearsome for a moment, with his flashing golden eyes. Northkit's ears flattened, but Brackenheart quickly meowed,

"I'm not angry with you, Northkit. I think I'll need to have a talk with Sharptalon later, is all. He should have known better than to let you play so close to the edge of the cliff…." Brackenheart trailed off, then gave his head a quick shake. "Never mind. Are you confined to the nursery now?"

Northkit shrugged. "Father said I should stay close, but he didn't say I had to be in it…I have to stay away from the other kits, though."

Brackenheart frowned again. "He's not doing you any favors by keeping you so isolated…but I suppose I can't do anything about that. However, I don't think he can object to you venturing beyond the nursery, so long as you have a responsible warrior with you. Would you like to do some exploring?"

Northkit's ears pricked. "Really? Do you mean it?"

Brackenheart laughed, and ruffled Northkit's ears with one paw. "Of course. Come on."

The golden tom rose to his paws and Northkit bounced after him. The white kit glowed with pride as the other kits turned to him with looks of envy; Brackenheart was one of the best warriors in the Clan, and no kit was as close to him as Northkit.

Privately, Northkit sometimes imagined what it would be like if Brackenheart had been his father. He would have golden fur, for one, which Birdkit might find more attractive than his chilly white pelt…but he would also have a father with a warm voice and kind eyes, one who was never too busy to play with him or keep him company when the other kits didn't want to acknowledge his existence. It was a lovely fantasy, but Northkit knew that was all it would ever be.

"Where are we going?" he chirped, bouncing on his dark paws. Brackenheart's muzzle curled into a smile, but he shook his head.

"I can't tell you that, just come on. We don't want Frozenstar to catch us, now do we? It's far easier to ask for forgiveness than permission." Brackenheart winked, before scooping up Northkit and darting out of camp.

Northkit wasn't so sure about forgiveness – Frozenstar was the kind of cat who held grudges with a vengeance – but he knew his father wasn't likely to just hand out permission, either. Dealing with the old white tom was a tricky subject.

Once they were out of the rocky camp, Brackenheart sat Northkit down again, intent on the kit making his own way rather than relying on the golden tom. Northkit didn't mind; the rocks were rough against his little paws, but he knew he wouldn't get any stronger without withstanding the pain. Besides, this was only his second time out of camp, and he wanted to relish every sensation.

The first had been about half a moon ago, when Brackenheart had taken him out to see a view of the territory that rested within the ring of mountains that FrozenClan controlled. He had gazed upon the spectacular view and had imagined himself splashing in MarshClan's mud, lying underneath the cool shadows of BirchClan's forest, and wiggling his toes in ShellClan's warm sand. He had sworn to himself that someday he would do all of those things, despite the lower Clan's hostility to his own. The lower Clans thought that FrozenClan was beneath them, ironically enough; FrozenClan was still very young, and the cats within it were finding it difficult to learn the Clan's ways and accept their new gods.

This time, however, Northkit felt there was something more afoot than the view. Brackenheart was moving without the slightest bit of hesitation, leaping from ledge to ledge and scaling the sheer cliff sides with ease. Northkit was much slower – he found the sensation of loose rock moving underneath his paws to be terrifying, and he had to circumvent some of the gaps that Brackenheart's longer legs could cope with – but he followed the golden tom doggedly.

Brackenheart paused on the edge of another ledge, waiting for Northkit. The white kit half-slid down to him, pebbles moving underneath his paws and clattering down the mountainside. Northkit approached the edge of the ledge, and peered over it to find a massive black hole yawning beneath his paws.

"One of our tunnels," Brackenheart said, taking the kit in his jaws and leaping from the ledge's lip to the slanted ground below. Northkit stared into the mouth of the cavern, and felt a cold breeze brush his cheek, as if the mountain itself was yawning.

Northkit peered into the inky blackness tentatively. He had heard of the tunnels, of course; it was thanks to the dark maze that sprawled over the entire mountain range that FrozenClan was able to navigate half of their territory. The tunnels had always been an important tool for the mountain cats to use, even before the Clans arrived.

"Come on," Brackenheart said, moving into the tunnel. Northkit remained motionless until the tom's tail disappeared; only then did he step forward with caution, shivering as the tunnel cast its shadow over his pelt.

He bumped into Brackenheart's leg and murmured an apology, but the golden tom didn't say anything for a long moment.

"Your father's been rough on you, hasn't he?"

Brackenheart's voice echoed eerily in the darkness, and Northkit imagined his words, as honey-gold as his pelt, flowing through the tunnels like winding snakes. He shuddered, then nodded, before wincing as he realized Brackenheart couldn't see him.

"Yeah."

"What did he say this time?"

Northkit's face burned with the memory, still so fresh in his mind. "Foolish. Irresponsible. Immature."

Brackenheart chuckled. "It's like he's never been a kit himself, huh? To be honest, I can't even remember a time when he wasn't a grouchy old cat. I think he might have been born that way."

An image of a kit with his father's drooping whiskers and lined face popped into Northkit's mind, and he giggled.

"He's one to talk, though," Brackenheart said. "I mean, when you think about it…well, take these tunnels, for example. No one knows how they were formed. Our best guess is that they were carved out by some force over an immense period of time, probably hundreds of years in the making, generations ago. No cat in living history can remember a time when they didn't exist, after all. Stories about the tunnels go back through entire families. And the mountains are even older than these twisting, winding tunnels, and seemingly just as endless and eternal. We're all immature little things, compared to our mountains. Our lives are little more than a flicker of the sun to them. How could we ever think ourselves to be so important, when the mountains have seen dozens of cats just like us pass before them?"

Northkit listened to Brackenheart in silence, not sure of how to reply. He tried to imagine the countless cats that must have wandered the mountains before him, but he couldn't quite grasp it. After all, he couldn't even remember a time when the Clans hadn't existed, and they were fairly recent. The idea of something happening so long ago that even the oldest elder couldn't remember it was astonishing to him.

"Does that mean we can't ever really be special?" he asked. "We can't ever do anything that really means something? After all, we can't carve our own tunnels. No living creature can do that."

Brackenheart's tail searched for him in the darkness, finally settling on his small shoulders. "No cat can be _unique, _but that doesn't mean your life will be meaningless, Northkit. After all, there are legends that have been around for just as long as the tunnels, right, or at least close to it? If you strive to be the best cat you can be, if you serve your Clan and father with everything you have, then you can't truly be forgotten. You'll always exist somewhere, even if it's in the dusty memories of long ago."

"Like with that StarClan thing that the Clan cats believe in?"

"Yes, like that. Mountain cats had their own beliefs, of course, before the Clan cats came. Many of the older cats will tell you about them, if you ask. A great many of them believed in beings similar to StarClan. They called them the Starwalkers. But it doesn't really matter which you believe in, Northkit; they're ultimately the same thing, the eternal remembering of cats gone by. You might not move mountains, but you can move the hearts of those from the past and those in the future."

Northkit smiled to himself in the darkness. Brackenheart spoke as if everything was so simple, and it made the little kit wish that things seemed that way for him too. He wanted to be strong and noble and memorable, like his father and Brackenheart, but he wasn't sure if he was up to the task. He felt different from the other kits, isolated…but perhaps that would make him shine when he was older. Perhaps the hardships he endured now would help him in the long run, when he became leader of the Clan – for who else would his father choose, besides Brackenheart, (and even Brackenheart could not live forever)? Then he could leave his mark, as Brackenheart had said. He could ensure that every cat born after him would remember his name and his legacy.

"We should be getting back, before your father worries…but do you feel better now, Northkit? Have I helped you at all?" There was a note of anxiety in Brackenheart's voice, and Northkit pressed his nose against the noble tom's leg.

"Yes," he mewed, then blinked up at the tom's face, shrouded in shadow. "Can we at least watch the sun set over the forest? Please? The warriors all say it's so beautiful…."

Brackenheart chuckled softly, bending down to lick his ear. "Of course. Come on."

They turned towards the light once more, the two of them walking together, shining tom and shy kit. Northkit let out a purr of pleasure as the sunlight caressed his face, then turned towards the lower territory, watching the sun glint on ShellClan's waters, burn into MarshClan's mud, and brush the tops of BirchClan's trees.

_Someday I'll see it all for myself, down below, _he swore. _All four Clans will know my name._

**AN: And thus the seed of Northy's ambition was planted….DUNDUNDUNNN**

**Even Northy was an ickle baby once. And we finally gotta see Mr. Freeze, who we've only heard of before, which is fun, right? :D  
**


	21. 20 Blazing

**AN: Finally made it to twenty. Jeebus. .**

**Anyway, this chapter came by popular request, since a few people have PM'd me about the topic. Enjoy~**

**20. Blazing**

_The kit didn't know where he was when he opened his eyes._

_It wasn't like any place he had ever seen before, or even dreamed about. It was a forest, but it was not like the one he had grown up in. He had always been confined to camp, because of his age; trees were nothing more than towering giants that hovered on the edges of his world, but here they were all around him, pressing in on all sides. It didn't make him feel claustrophobic; rather, it was comforting, like the gentle presence of guardians surrounding him, protecting him from harm._

_Every leaf seemed to glow with its own inner light as it hung above his head, every branch seemed to curve in ways that he couldn't describe, and every cloud passing over him seemed brighter and fuller than any he had seen before. He could hear the rustles of prey all around him, in the squeaking of mice and the gentle songs of birds._

_He didn't know where he was, but he knew it was wondrous._

_He hesitated, then took a step forward, before staring down at the soft earth underneath his paws. It was warm, warmer than the earth that he had touched in life, warmer even than the nursery den where he huddled next to his sister and pressed his nose into his mother's fur. It was as if the earth in this place held an inner fire, kindled by wondrous powers that his young mind could not comprehend. _

_Everything about this place was alive, that much was obvious. His keen ears could hear the humming that ran through every leaf, branch, cloud, and prey animal. He closed his eyes and imagined a vast web spreading before him, connecting every one of those objects back down to this thrumming earth._

_And then, he knew where he was._

StarClan, _he thought, but did not feel afraid. He did not pause to wonder if he was dead; if he was, there was nothing he could do about it, and if not then someone else had brought him here. He didn't care why he was here at all; all he wanted to do was enjoy more of this magical place._

_He reached out with one paw and touched a springy fern, blinking with surprise as he felt its inner humming vibrate through his paw. He pulled back, gazing at the plant with wonder._

"_You can feel it, then?"_

_He turned around, and was greeted by a burning, intense burst of light. He closed his eyes, then squinted, trying to make out the strange form that stood before him. After a moment, he realized it was a cat, but a cat unlike any that he had ever seen. This cat's pelt was dotted by stars that burned white-hot. They were too bright to look at head-on; no matter how hard he tried, his eyes slid away. This strange cat was _blazing, _shining with powers that the young kit could not yet comprehend. The kit went rigid, transfixed by their glow and a touch of fear._

_After a moment, the fierce fire of the stars dimmed, and the kit could make out more of the blazing cat. He was a tom, somewhat young, with keen amber eyes. His fur was brown, and stricken with dark stripes that twisted over his pelt like thick vines. Across his nose was a bold battle scar; one of his ears had a slice taken out of it. The kit was perplexed by this strange combination of youth and wear, and equally confused by the look of wisdom in the tom's eyes._

_He blinked as he realized the tom had asked him a question._

"_F-feel what?" he stammered._

"_The humming," the tom said, reaching up with his tail to touch a broad oak leaf that hung inches above his head. "It's the very essence of this place, you know. Not everyone can feel it."_

_The kit swallowed. "But you do, right?"_

_The tom nodded. "I'm a part of this forest now. All StarClan cats are. Someday you will be too…but I don't think that will be for many moons."_

_The kit craned his neck backwards to look up at the sky, watching the downy clouds pass above their heads. "It's amazing. Even the clouds hum, although they're harder to hear."_

_The tom purred. "Yes, they do. In truth, it can be a little annoying at times…but you'll learn to block it out, if you don't want to hear it."_

_The kit couldn't imagine such a thing. The very idea of not wanting to see how everything connected back to the earth was incredible to him._

"_I'm not dead, though, am I?" he asked. "I don't have any stars. How can I hear it if I'm not a part of it yet?"_

"_Even the living is a part of StarClan," the tom said. "That part of you is forever tied to this place. It's how StarClan cats are able to contact the living. That part is stronger within you than most."_

_The kit's eyes widened. "Am I going to be a medicine cat?"_

_The tom shrugged. "It's your choice, of course. StarClan can't force your path. But you have the potential to become one, certainly, if you're willing to put up with Batflight."_

_The kit stiffened. "You know him?"_

_The tom grinned. "Of course. Don't let him make you think he's so high-and-mighty; I dunked him soundly in a river once, if I recall."_

_Something clicked within the kit's mind. He had heard such a story before, but it hadn't been from this strange tom. It had been from his mother, Foxfire. She had told him of her dear friend who had played with her on the riverbank, and who had helped her take Batflight's pride down a notch – although he had been Batpaw then, and a member of ShadowClan. _

_She had been talking about the kit's father._

_He stared at the tom for a long moment, and the smile fell from the tabby's face. The stars blazing throughout his pelt seemed to dim, as if he was nervous._

"_Tigerstripe," the kit said slowly, tasting the word. It fell from his tongue with the same sort of humming that the rest of the forest held, and his certainty deepened. "Father."_

_The tom nodded. "Yes. It's me, Dusk-kit."_

_They stared at each other again, the minutes ticking by, before Dusk-kit stepped forward. He reached out and pressed his nose against the tom's chest, right where one of his bright stars glowed. For an instant, the kit was consumed by searing heat, but when he did not draw back, the heat faded, leaving nothing but a comforting warmth. He took in a deep breath, drinking in his father's scent, and it felt just as familiar as his mother's, as if he had known it all his life._

"_Father," he said again, more quietly this time, and Tigerstripe dipped his head until his nose caressed the kit's back. They sat like that, until Dusk-kit pulled away._

"_Have you talked to Mother this way too? Or Firekit?" he asked._

"_I spoke to your mother not too long ago…but I haven't been able to reach Firekit yet. The reason I can talk to Foxfire stems from her bloodline, and you have the possibility of becoming a medicine cat, but Firekit's connection to your ancestor is obviously weaker than your mother's, and she doesn't have your heightened spirituality. I'm still trying to make contact."_

"_Mother never said anything about it to us," Dusk-kit mewed, "although I guess I can understand why…."_

"_Yeah," Tigerstripe said, and there was another lull between them, before he flicked his tail. "Can we walk? Do you mind? I just can't stand sitting still here. There are still so many things in this vast forest that even I haven't seen, and I want to discover all that I can."_

_Dusk-kit shook his head, and Tigerstripe began walking at a brisk pace, slowing his steps as he realized that his son was having a difficult time keeping up. Dusk-kit found himself stopping to peer at every leaf or fern along their path, but his father did not seem to mind. Rather, Tigerstripe looked on with a knowing gleam in his amber eyes. _

"_This place is beautiful, isn't it?"_

_Dusk-kit blinked, but did not answer for a brief time. He stopped walking, and stared down at his paws._

"_Something wrong?"_

"_This place _is _beautiful," Dusk-kit said softly. "It's the most beautiful place I've ever seen. I can see why you would rather be here than with us."_

_Tigerstripe's eyes widened. "What?"_

_Dusk-kit's voice lowered until it was little more than a murmur, almost too quiet for Tigerstripe to hear the underlying tremor. "I heard my mother talking to Batflight once…about how she thought you gave up your life for her. That you died so she could live. I always thought that was the only reason, but I guess this place is just so wondrous, you couldn't bear staying away…."_

"_Dusk-kit." Tigerstripe's voice was gentle and warm as he pulled the kit closer to him with one paw. "It's true, I did give up my life so Foxfire could live on in my place, but it had nothing to do with StarClan. It was because I love her, Dusk-kit, and I love you too. It's hard to describe a feeling like that, when Batflight told me she wouldn't make it much longer…it was like I was on fire. I didn't come here because I welcomed this place, as beautiful as it is. My love for Foxfire – and for you – blazes more brightly than any star in the sky."_

_He leaned downwards, and Dusk-kit buried his face in his father's chest again._

"_You said there's always something to discover in the forest," he whispered. "Can…can I discover it with you?"_

_Tigerstripe smiled as he rested his nose on his son's head. "Until the night is through," he promised. Together, father and son rose, and padded into the gently humming brush, with Tigerstripe's pelt blazing brighter than ever before._

**AN: I hope the requesters are satisfied. :)**


	22. 21 Help

**AN: Originally this chapter was going to be completely different, but a friend of mine mentioned a character that I haven't ever written anything about from her POV, and it filled me with ideas. Hope you enjoy this. C:**

**21. Help**

_Help._

How many times had she asked StarClan for help? Too many to count, certainly. She had begged them for mercy when her mother had fallen ill. She had beseeched them for strength when Dapplefern turned against her. She had pleaded for their anger when she had seen Lightstar and Graywing together.

But they had not answered her, not even once.

_Help._

She had gone to her Clanmates for aid, when StarClan had turned their backs on her. But her Clanmates were cold, and when they looked at her, she knew they were seeing the cat that she had once been. _Whatever happened to Rosepaw? _their icy gazes asked as they watched her struggle with her growing stomach. _We remember when she was young. We remember when she and Dapplepaw were as thick as thieves. We remember when Lightstar padded after her. We remember her when she was happy. What happened to the Rosepaw that we knew? Who replaced her with this stranger? _Not one of them felt sympathy for her. They assumed she had brought it upon herself. After all, they couldn't blame Lightstar. He was their leader, their head, the one that every kit looked to for encouragement and the one that every kit wished to someday replace. No one could find faults in Lightstar without exposing the cracks in their crumbling Clan, their faltering warrior code.

_Help._

Blackmoon was the only cat to remain by her side. He was the one that supported her even now, in her darkest hour. She knew that no matter what she did, he would never desert her, and she loved him like a brother for that. But she knew it was not enough, that it could never be enough for him. He wanted something more, something that she couldn't give him, and she hated herself for it. And she hated that no matter how many consoling words he gave her, no matter how many hours he stayed with her while she shuddered and shook, no matter how many times he listened to her mumble Lightstar's name in her sleep, it wouldn't be enough to fill the gaping hole inside her chest.

_Help._

It was a silent plea to StarClan, one last chance for them to do something right, one last chance for them to prove that they cared. She didn't care what the help was. She didn't care if it was something as small as a breeze over her fur or a butterfly hovering above her. Any sign, _any sign _that showed that someone up there in the blue sky was watching over her was good enough.

_Help._

Her mother was up there, in StarClan. Her father too, and her two siblings, both of whom had never seen their second moon. Her aunts and her uncles, her grandparents, and every cat in PeakClan that had come before her were all up there, looking down now. But they weren't looking down at her. No, their attention was focused on the worthy. They were watching Lightstar, Graywing, Dapplefern, Blackmoon, all the cats that deserved StarClan's light. She did not. How else could she explain all that had gone wrong in her life? How else could she explain Dapplefern's betray, Lightstar's treachery, Graywing's secrets? How else could she explain these kits growing in her belly – alien creatures that fed off of her, sapped her strength, made her bones ache – without a father that would love and cherish them? How else could she justify Graywing's own stomach, which grew larger every day? How else could she accept Dapplefern gaining an apprentice, young Rabbitpaw, when she didn't care for the little she-cat at all, whereas Rosedapple wanted nothing more than to mentor a young one, to raise a cat to grow up and love its Clan?

_Help._

That was the problem, really. She couldn't explain any of those things. She couldn't justify them. She couldn't _accept _them. Her life had crumbled down around her ears, and she had done nothing to stop it. Her dying hadn't been dramatic, like falling from the Peak, but it was no less final. She had made up her mind. She was going to do it. She had no other choice. There was nothing waiting for her, at home. There was nothing for her in camp. There was nothing for her in the forest, or by the streams, or hidden away in the stones of their territory. There was nothing for her anywhere, not even the tiniest sliver of hope.

_Help._

She'd clung to hope for moons. If she just hoped enough, maybe her mother would get better. If she just hoped enough, maybe Dapplefern would forget her anger and warm to her again. If she just hoped enough, maybe Lightstar would come back to her. If she just hoped enough, maybe Graywing would be struck by a bolt of lightning for breaking one of the warrior code's most sacred rules. If she just hoped enough, maybe she wouldn't be so lost. But hope had done nothing for her, and piece by piece it had slipped away, until even the final shard that she had been clinging to was gone. And she had found herself adrift as if caught in the swirling rapids of the river, without any solid ground in sight.

_Help._

She stared over the edge of the ledge, watching the water rush below her. Her claws were hooked on the very end, digging into the dirt and stone. She knew it wouldn't be an easy death. It would be painful. Water would fill her nose and mouth. Her lungs would cry out for air. Her body would be beaten mercilessly against the stones. No, it would not be an easy death, but she did not care. Every cat had to die eventually, and why should she have so much time left, when she had nothing to live for?

_Help._

She could feel the kits moving in her belly, and it sickened her. She could feel them kicking, struggling to get out, as if they knew their time was coming. Most mothers would be happy. She had seen Graywing's gentle glow of contentment when she blinked down at her own belly. But, Graywing had Lightstar to nuzzle her and whisper sweet nothings in her ear. She had no one, and if her kits were born, they would have no one to love them. They would be outcasts, just as she was. Surely this was a kinder fate.

_Help._

She could feel the spray from the water on her face. It was cool, and she could almost swear it was freezing on her whiskers. The cold made her tremble, but she didn't pull away. She was still clinging, she realized, to the possibility of StarClan sending her a sign. She would settle for something as insignificant as this spraying water, which had always existed and would continue to exist even after she was gone. It was meaningless – she knew that, she wasn't delusional – but some part of her wanted it to mean something all the same.

_Help._

There was no more putting it off. No one was coming to help her. No one even knew she was missing. It would be hours before her Clanmates realized that she was gone, and by then it would be too late. She was going to do it, she had to. For once in her life, she had to be strong enough to take control of her own fate.

_Help._

That was what it was all about, wasn't it? All her life, things had _happened _to her, things beyond her control. Her mother became ill and died. Lightstar fell for her, and Dapplefern turned away. Lightstar moved on to Graywing, discarding her like a scrap of fresh-kill. When had she ever been in control? When had she ever had a say in how her life would play out? The answer was always the same. Never. This fate had been hers from the moment she was born. Only now would she have the chance to decide it for herself.

_Help._

She took a last, deep breath, and felt a shudder run through her body as she heaved herself to her paws. Her shoulders ached from the strain of carrying the kits in her stomach, but there was more to the pain than that. Moons and moons of misery hung over her like a dark cloud, weighing more than boulders on her delicate frame. She stared into the water, and realized that she was unafraid.

_Help._

With that last plea, she took the step forward. Just one step was all it took, and the wind was rushing up to her face and the water was closer and—

—and suddenly there were strong jaws buried in her scruff, digging into her skin, and she was motionless. For a moment, she was nothing but a kit hanging in the jaws of her mother, until the jaws began to pull. Slowly – ever so slowly – she was brought back over the ledge, until soft grass brushed her stomach and there was solid ground beneath her paws. The cat released her, and she laid motionless, staring into the face of the white tom that had saved her.

_Help._

This was what she had been asking, begging, beseeching, _pleading_ for. She could see it in his face. Every line was a story of hardship and pain, every scar a reminder of something he wished to forget, every hair on his pelt aching with the desire for something he could not achieve. He had saved her, and yet there was more to him than a hero.

_Help, _his eyes said to her, burning like liquid gold, like the sun rising on a misty morning, like the wild gaze of a lion. She almost laughed at the absurdity of StarClan sending such a broken creature to save her, and how she must in turn save such a twisted soul, but some part of her, some tiny shard, slipped back into place. It wasn't enough to fill the gaping hole inside of her, not yet. She wasn't sure if it would ever be enough, if there would ever be an end to the path that they were facing now.

But it was a start.


	23. 22 Presence

**AN: This one-shot is also for a competition in TacoClan. We have to write something fluffy (not necessarily love, but something cute or good-feelings-y) because there's been a lot of depressing stuff going on in the forum (character-wise, not drama-wise, or anything). I'm not sure this fits the bill, but I tried, haha. It certainly felt good to write.**

**Copperblaze, Shackle, and Honey all belong to me. Larkflight belongs to Shimmertail. Morninglight (the golden she-cat mentioned in passing) belongs to me, as does Cedarwhisker. Stonestorm (gray tom mentioned in passing, an apprentice when Shaq attacked him) is Shimmertail's too.**

**This is assumably set while Maelstrom is infiltrating the Clan, and Shackle is lurking in the forest waiting for him, as he promised (instead of being at the border with the others).**

**22. Presence.**

_His eyes were huge in his tiny head as the two toms stared down at him. One was thin, with a tabby coat; the other was as gray and imposing as a mountain._

"_Kill her," the smaller tom spat. The gray tom's yellow eyes rolled towards him, and he took a step forward._

_Golden fur suddenly blocked his line of sight, as his mother crouched over him protectively._

"_Run," she whispered, and he could hear the frantic beating of her heart. "Run, and don't look back."_

"_Momma—"_

"_Go!"_

_He wiggled backwards, sliding out from between her front paws. Her tail gently swept over his face, and he hesitated. "Momma…."_

_His eyes widened in horror as his mother was knocked off her paws. The massive gray tom crouched over her, pinning her down, and as the kit watched he sunk his fangs into his mother's throat. She struggled, but she was a kittypet, born and raised, and even the strongest fighter could not have dislodged the gray tom's hold. _

_The kit watched his mother's struggles grow weaker and weaker, until the gray tom released her. He turned towards the kit, and his muzzle was wet with scarlet blood._

Copperblaze's eyes sprang open, and he realized that his heart was beating furiously. He sat up, taking a panting breath, trying to clear his head.

_Mother, _he thought, and dug his claws into the floor of the den. _Shackle. _Only when Larkflight moved beside him did he realized that he had hissed the name aloud. How could he hold it in? It had been Shackle, the gray tom, who had killed his mother while he watched, terrified and helpless.

He looked towards Larkflight again, and his ears flattened. The den was icy, and she seemed cold. He moved towards her, then hesitated. His ears flattened against his head. He was certain that if he drifted off to sleep again, he would only have more nightmares, and he didn't want to disturb her.

With a quiet sigh, he rose to his paws, picking his way over the other sleeping warriors and slipping out of the den. He continued on out of camp and into the forest, seeking some sort of peace, some solace.

. . .

_His Master's eyes were cool, his icy green gaze focused on the golden she-cat before them. She crouched protectively over her kit, and he smiled with amusement._

"_Kill her," he ordered. Shackle glanced towards him. His Master knew how much he disliked killing queens. Still, the she-cat was a threat, that much had been established. What choice did he have?_

_The queen ducked her head, murmuring something to her kit, and the ginger kit wiggled away. Seeing she was distracted, he lunged forward, knocking her to the ground and biting her throat before she could react. She struggled in his jaws, her paws buffeting him with weak blows, but he could feel her heartbeat weakening, until it no longer beat at all. Few cats were strong enough to escape his grip, after all, and never when he had them by the throat. For most, their fate was sealed as soon as he grasped their life in his jaws._

_He released her, and found the kit shrinking away from him, his eyes wide with terror. _

_He looked to his Master, and saw his green eyes glittering with indecision. _

"_Leave it," Shackle rumbled softly. "He'll spread word of your fearsome power. He'll send a message."_

_His Master considered it for a few more moments, before an arrogant smirk curled his muzzle._

"_Leave it," his Master ordered as if Shackle had not spoken, flicking his tail dismissively. "Let him mourn. He'll never forget our power."_

_Shackle looked at the kit one last time, before bowing his head, and following the young tabby tom, leaving the kit crouched next to his bloodied mother._

Shackle's eyes opened with painful slowness, but all he saw was darkness. It took him a moment to remember that he was in a den, not on the streets with the tabby tom at his side and a queen's blood on his claws.

He sighed to himself. The last few days had been the hardest he'd had to bear in moons. One thing after another, troubles piling upon troubles, until he was certain he'd collapse from the weight.

He let out a deep, grumbling sigh, and rose to his paws, wincing at the stiffness in his shoulders. He knew he would get no more sleep tonight, not with the ghosts of those he had killed haunting him. He just needed a bit of space, that was all.

He padded into the forest, his ears pricked for danger. Every crackle in the brush made him flinch, every rustle made him pause. He was on edge, half-expecting a ghost to lunge at him from the shadows. He shook himself, told himself he was only being foolish, but the feeling didn't leave.

He had always known that most of his acts would be considered inexcusable with most cats. And, a few times he had faltered, as he had with the gray apprentice and golden she-cat that he had chanced upon. But he had always been acting on his Master's orders, so the guilt had abated somewhat. Now, though, considering the deal that Maelstrom had made in order to try and protect him, and Mackerel's following sacrifice…there was an imbalance between him and his Master. Maelstrom could never have made the deal if there wasn't at least a small part of him that cared for his servant, and that wasn't supposed to happen. It threw their entire partnership into question. Shackle was supposed to be nothing more than his slave, but Maelstrom's deal….

He shook his head, as if trying to brush off a bothersome fly, only to freeze as he heard another snap in the forest. This one was closer than the others, though, and carried the weight of danger with it. He took a step back, but his own weight made the leaves underneath him crackle damningly. His ears flattened, and he tensed, unsheathing his claws. If it had to come to a fight, he would be ready.

He could see a shape moving in front of him, plunging forward as if it had no clue he was there. He tensed, preparing to spring, only to freeze as he saw the glint of the tom's ginger pelt.

The tom stopped as well, finally seeing him. For a short moment, Shackle and Copperblaze only stared at one another, neither moving. Then, Copperblaze let out a low, feral growl.

"What are you doing back in our territory, you murderer?" he spat.

Shackle didn't reply. He was still staring at the ginger tom, but he wasn't seeing him at all. He was only seeing a terrified ginger kit crouched under his mother.

"You," he murmured. He had seen the ginger tom once more after killing his mother. It had been here in this very forest, after the young tom had rushed to the aid of his friend, a little she-cat that he had thought Shackle was attacking.

"What about me?" Copperblaze snarled. His claws dug into the ground. "I swore to myself that if I ever saw you again, I'd kill you."

"How's that she-cat?" Shackle asked, ignoring the ginger tom's murderous expression. "The one you thought I was going to hurt."

"Larkflight's fine, but it's none of your business!" Copperblaze tensed, looking as though he was about to spring.

_Incredible, how we both made it to this same forest, _Shackle thought, feeling distant, as if he didn't have a warrior ready to rip out his throat confronting him. _Fate's guiding paw has been at work, I suppose. And to think that we would both be out here, on the same night, at the same time…._

He looked to the blazing warrior, and again saw the shell-shocked kit, his eyes wide with terror. Even now, the warrior's eyes were haunted with the pain of seeing his mother murdered right before him, and Shackle sighed softly.

"You don't even know why we did it, do you?" he asked. "Did anyone ever tell you?"

Copperblaze froze again. He didn't have to ask what Shackle meant. "There wasn't a reason for it. You killed her in cold blood, because that tom told you to."

"I killed her because he told me to, yes," Shackle replied, "but that's not why _he _killed her."

The tip of Copperblaze's tail twitched, and he hesitated. Shackle smiled, knowing that he had the young warrior hooked, but it was a smile devoid of any pleasure. He waited a moment longer, then sat down with a quiet sigh, curling his tail around his paws.

"Go on," Copperblaze growled, his claws still unsheathed. He still looked as though he was about to pounce, but the fury in his eyes was wavering.

"Did you ever wonder why you were in the same place for so long?" he asked. "Your mother was a roamer, but you were in the same section of Twolegplace for nearly a moon."

His ears flattened. "I don't remember most of it. I remember the stories she used to tell. I remember how soft her fur was. I remember when you threw her to the ground and held her there until she died."

Shackle nodded. "You were a tiny thing at the time. It's to be expected." He sighed softly. "My Master didn't learn of her for some time. He was focused on other things, and she was quiet. But when he learned of her, his fury…it was something to behold." He closed his eyes, remembering those blazing green eyes, those trembling paws, the sting of those claws against his chest.

"Why would he care about my mother?" Copperblaze hissed. "She was only a kittypet. She was just looking for my father, who abandoned us."

"Perhaps that's how it started out," Shackle said, "but that was not how it ended. Weren't there cats that she was meeting with? Cats that you didn't know, didn't recognize?"

Copperblaze's brow furrowed, and he seemed confused. "N-no. I don't…Mother never had very many visitors, but…."

"But there were those moments, where your mother told you to go and play, or go and eat, while she spoke to adults, weren't there?" Shackle's voice was low and even.

Copperblaze's eyes fell from his face, down to the ground. "Maybe…I don't really remember, but there was a black tom…he had a scar over one eye. He'd come sometimes, not often…and a silver tabby, with a twisted jaw…but they were just her friends. She had plenty of friends…and no enemies. She was too kind for that." He bared his fangs again.

"Her friends were part of a movement to overthrow my Master," Shackle said. "He was trying to gain power in Twolegplace, but others stood against him. My Master was arrogant, and cruel. Few wanted to serve him. Your mother witnessed some crime – what it was, I do not know – and it caused her to pledge herself with them."

Copperblaze's eyes widened, and for a moment he went rigid.

"One day…I remember she went hunting, and when she came back, there was blood on her paws," he whispered. "I kept asking what had happened, but…all she said is that some queens were not as lucky as she was. And then she held me close for a long time, and I tried to wiggle away because I didn't know what was wrong…."

Shackle's yellow eyes softened, but he continued. "Honey acted as a spy for them. She would pad into my Master's territory and find information, playing the part of a lost kittypet, befriending toms for information, before reporting back to her 'friends,' telling them of my Master's weaknesses: the times of patrols, recent battles, splits within the group."

"So…she was trying to help," Copperblaze murmured. "She was on the right side. The good side. She was looking out for everyone that couldn't defend themselves."

Shackle shrugged. "Perhaps. My Master wasn't the right cat to lead Twolegplace. It would have been ruined with him at the head. I can't speak for the cats your mother was meeting with, but any would have been an improvement."

"Then why did you help him?" Copperblaze snarled. He was on his paws again, fur bristling, looking ready to tear out Shackle's throat. Shackle didn't back away from his anger, didn't even rise to his feet. He shook his head.

"I was his servant," he said simply, the only justification he had. "From a kit I was raised to serve him. Before he was even born, I was training to defend him. Without him, I had no one."

Copperblaze was still bristling, but his tail was no longer lashing from side to side. "You knew he was in the wrong, and still you served him?" His eyes traced over Shackle's scar-riddled pelt. "How many of those scars are from him?"

Shackle didn't answer either question. "I'm not finished. Your revenge can wait a few more minutes." He paused, but Copperblaze didn't move, and so he went on.

"Your mother knew she would never make it out of Twolegplace alive," he meowed. "There was no way. My Master's cats were looking for her everywhere. They made sure there was no escape for her. She knew as soon as she started working against my Master that it would end badly for her. But she didn't know what would happen to you.

"My Master became more arrogant by the day. He began leaving me behind, to conduct patrols and bask in the glow of his successes without me. I was only a tool, after all. Your mother learned of this, and she knew that her own time was drawing near. So she came to me, in the heart of my Master's territory, when she knew he would be away. She walked past his guards and warriors without fear. She met with me. And she asked me for something."

"What did she ask for?" Copperblaze asked before he could stop himself. He seemed to regret the question immediately, as if he was betraying his mother by pressing Shackle for more information. Shackle sighed softly.

"She told me that she knew we would catch up to her. She knew that she would die. And she knew that when she did, you would be vulnerable. What she asked was not to protect herself. It was to protect you." Shackle stared at the young tom, seeing the indecision written on his face. "She asked me to promise that, unless I was directly ordered to and could not disobey, not to harm you."

Copperblaze's eyes were glassy as he stared at Shackle, and he knew the young tom was replaying the memory of his mother's death, just as Shackle was. And he saw the recognition flood over the ginger tom's face, as he remembered Shackle's careful vocal nudge, his quiet suggestion.

"But…why?" Copperblaze whispered. "Why did you agree? Why did you help me?"

Shackle took a moment to answer. In truth, he wasn't sure what the real answer was. He'd been asking him the same thing for moons. It was a question that kept popping up, over and over. Why had he let Copperblaze escape as a kit? Why hadn't he killed the golden she-cat and gray apprentice when he had attacked them? Why hadn't he attacked the young she-cat, Copperblaze's friend, when he had suspected that she was a Clan cat all along? Perhaps, somewhere, there was some of that softness that his father had worked so hard to stamp out. Perhaps, even after all the beatings, the jeering, the shouting, he had retained some small, fragile piece of compassion.

His ears flattened. "I don't know. Your mother…she was vulnerable. But she was brave. She was so unlike my Master; she was willing to die for others, and didn't expect anything in return. All she wanted was for you to be safe." He shook his head. "It was such a huge thing for her, a matter of life and death, but for me…it was such a small favor. How could I refuse?"

Copperblaze's eyes had fallen to his paws. "How could I not have known? How could I never have suspected…?"

"The same reason no one else did, not at first," Shackle said. "She was a kittypet, born and bred. There was nothing in her blood to suggest that sort of courage, that strength. She looked the part of the lost, helpless creature."

Copperblaze's ears flattened. "My mother was a hero, and I had no idea."

"She saved your life. And mine, in a way," Shackle said. "Because of her information, my Master was brought down. And I came here."

"And attacked my Clanmates," Copperblaze growled, but the old fire in his voice was gone, replaced by hollowness. "You crippled Stonestorm, and I know you had something to do with Cedarwhisker's death."

Shackle shrugged. "Those names mean nothing to me. If you're going to take your revenge, then do so. But before you do, there is one more thing that I'd like to say."

Copperblaze hesitated, then nodded. Shackle took his eyes off of him, looking up at the sky, watching the stars shining overhead.

"I believe in a sort of Fate," he said. "I believe it was Fate that guided us both to the same forest. It's probably Fate that has set us on opposite sides. But there are other forces at work." He closed his eyes, feeling a breeze ruffle his fur. "I'm not sure I believe in ghosts. But your mother…I do not think she would have let anything stop her from protecting you, even death. I think it was she who guided you to this place, where you were meant to be. And I believe that she is still watching over you. A protective presence, if you would. And I think she would be proud, because you Clan cats do what she did: you risk your lives to protect others, the innocent, those that cannot defend themselves."

He opened his eyes again, looking to the ginger tom. "Perhaps that is why I agreed to her request. Perhaps I knew that any cat of her blood would fight for the same values, no matter what happened to her."

He rose to his paws, wincing as pain ran through his broad shoulders. To his surprise, he realized that Copperblaze was almost as tall as he was, although the tom was not built as powerfully as he.

"Go ahead, then," he said. "I will give you one strike. One blow for your mother."

Copperblaze only blinked at him for a moment, before he took a step forward, then another. Shackle saw the glint of the younger tom's claws in the moonlight, but did not move away, did not feel a prickle of fear. He rose his muzzle slightly, glancing back up the moon hanging over their heads.

Copperblaze stopped in front of him, and Shackle again turned to look back at the young tom. Their eyes met, and their gazes held, green and yellow, until Copperblaze swiped his claws across Shackle's throat.

The pain was immediate, but Shackle did not move back as crimson blood began seeping into his fur. And Copperblaze did not pull away, but continued to stare.

It was not a fatal blow. The slash wasn't even very deep. It stung, but would do little else. Copperblaze knew it, and knew that Shackle understood that it was deliberate.

"Thank you," Copperblaze said softly. "Thank you for keeping your promise to my mother."

Shackle nodded. "I do not think I will trouble your forest again, but understand that I can keep no promises."

Copperblaze smiled, but it was tinged with sadness. "I know. I don't want to see you again, and if I do, don't think I'll hesitate to attack. I won't tolerate trespassers in our territory."

Shackle didn't answer, but inwardly, he smiled back. The young tom had possessed a chance to kill him, to avenge his mother. And yet, he had not. Within Copperblaze there was still compassion, despite his mother's death. Within Copperblaze, there was a strength that his first Master could never have understood.

Without another word, Copperblaze turned away, his ginger pelt disappearing into the forest, going home to his Clanmates. Shackle turned away as well, heading towards his empty den, then hesitated. He glanced over his shoulder one last time.

For a single moment, he thought he saw the shimmer of a golden pelt.

**AN: This is one where the theme isn't as obvious, I guess. Presence is Honey, Copper's mother, but in some ways it's also Shackle, since the memory of his mother's death has haunted Copper for moons, always a constant reminder of his failings. He's encountered Shackle a few times before and had always been outmatched, so this is the first time he has the upper paw, so to speak, and instead of taking advantage, he lets him get away.**


	24. 23 Because

**23. Because**

The rain poured down on him, matting his thick fur, but he did not shrink back. Lightning flashed above his head, making him flinch, but he did not turn to hide. Thunder roared above his head, making his ears flatten, but he did not seek shelter. He stared up at the sky, his yellow eyes glowing as bright as the powerful forces churning above him.

_Go on, then, _he challenged them. _Strike me down. I am not afraid._

The wind picked up, flinging the stinging rain into his face, but still he did not move. The sea rolled and crashed before him, smashing up against the dark, jagged rocks, but he did not avoid the salty spray. He weathered it all, just as he had everything else. Nothing could wound him more deeply than his own failings already had.

Lightning forked down behind him, and he heard the incredible blast of sound as it struck a tree, crumpling it with ease. He turned to look, staring at the blackened shell of what had once been a mighty, indomitable tree.

_Who knows how many years it took to grow? How many days it soaked up sunlight and water, how many nights it stretched its roots out, spreading its influence far and wide…and yet, in the end, nothing saved it. All those wasted years, and in a single second, it's all torn away…._

His claws dug into the sandy stone beneath his paws._ There's no avoiding our twisted fates. It doesn't matter what we do. Zig never had an evil thought. Blue never stirred up any trouble. Tiger was the most loyal tom I have ever known. Clover…._His heart clenched with pain. _Clover was perfect. She never hurt anyone, never had any malice in her heart, never turned away from a cat seeking aid. And yet…._

He bowed his head as her face entered his mind, her white fur touched with soft ginger, her green eyes glowing with warmth and gentle love.

"Clover," he whispered, her name tingling against his tongue. Once it had filled him with an inner glow, as sweet and warm as honey, but now he only felt a flickering flame. Clover was dead, and he knew who to blame.

He turned back towards the sea, watching the gray waves roil. He let out a low hiss as he thought of the treacherous tom, with his mangy silver pelt and dull eyes.

_Fadedstar, _he snarled, his claws hooking into the rocks once more, pressing into them with enough force to cause pain prickling through his paws. _You might have escaped my vengeance by falling ill, but your daughter will not be as lucky._

_How can she be considered lucky? _a voice within his mind asked. _Her entire family is dead, just like yours. She only has a few friends left to cling to, and who knows how long she can hold onto that?_

_Friends are more than I have, _he answered. _My family is dead. Brightfire was the only cat that I could consider as my friend, but he is with _them _now. I am alone._

His ears flattened at the thought. He did not want to face Brightfire in battle; the ginger tom had proven himself to be a loyal cat, one with a good, strong heart. But he had sided with the wrong cats, and if Lion faced him in battle, he would have no chance but to strike him down.

_Why fight Silverstreak at all? _the voice nagged.

Lion's thick tail lashed from side to side as the silver tom entered his mind once more, and he let out a furious hiss. "Because Fadedstar sent my family out to die, and I will do the same to his," he spat aloud, bristling with fury as the sea continued to crash against the rocks. "Because Fadedstar was just like every other Clan cat: arrogant, greedy, and willing to sacrifice other cats for his own Clan. Because Fadedstar escaped my wrath by dying, and now his crimes must be passed down to her."

_Killing her won't bring your family back, _the voice said.

"Killing her is the only way for Clover and the rest of my family to be at peace!" he snarled at the sea, as if it was the one mocking him. "Killing her is the only way to make things right again!"

_Do you honestly think Clover would want you to kill for her? Or would she be disgusted that you've lost yourself like this, that you've been reduced to nothing more than a broken murderer?_

"Shut up!" he roared, his voice echoing over the thunder and tumultuous waves. "I have to do this. I can't fail Clover again! I have to protect our son. The first thing Silverstreak will do is come look for revenge for her family, and she will find it here! I have to be strong, for him. Clover can't be at peace unless she knows I can take care of him."

His voice faltered. "She can't be at peace because it's my fault. It's my fault for being weak. It's my fault for not being able to protect her, to shield her and our kits as I swore I would. It's my fault for not being there when she needed me the most, and she died because of it. My life _crumpled _because I wasn't strong enough to refuse Fadedstar, to force her to stay home, to protect her in battle."

He bowed his head, water streaming down his face, splashing onto his paws. "I have to make sure the deaths of our friends are avenged. I have to make sure that Chill would be safe." His voice was rough, as if he had been swallowing nettles. "I have to do this…because I cannot fail her again."

There was another close strike of lightning, but he did not turn to see the damage. He did not believe in any sorts of gods. He did not believe in hidden signs or messages. Until Clover had died, he wasn't sure he had even believed in spirits, but now that was all he had to cling to.

"Father?"

The voice came just between two claps of thunder, and he blinked, surprised. He had not told anyone from TalonClan of his coming here. He had needed space, time to himself. There were too many cats in the mountains, too many pairs of happy mates, too many tumbling kits making him think of what he had lost.

He turned, and his eyes narrowed as he squinted through the rain, trying to see the dim shape standing before it. His eyes widened as he recognized the kit, who looked like nothing more than a white scrap of fur. He had been soaked to the bone, and his fur had flattened enough to show every rib.

"Chill?" Lion growled, taking a step forward. "What are you doing here?"

"I woke up, and no one could tell me where you were," the kit answered. His ears were flat against his head, and he was shivering. Lion frowned.

"You shouldn't be out here in the rain." He hurried towards the kit, trying to block more of the lashing rain from striking his thin frame. "You should have just waited for me. I would have come back."

He ushered him into the shelter of the trees. The lack of leaves meant that the trees offered little reprieve, however, and Lion let out a growl as Chill shivered.

"I wasn't sure you would return," the kit said softly. "I didn't want to be left alone again."

Lion's ears flattened, and he bent down to press his nose against Chill's head. "I will never do that to you."

The young tom blinked up at him. "But you're going off into battle without me. How is that not leaving me alone?"

Lion's gaze hardened. "That's different. I have to. I have to avenge my family. I have to punish the warriors for the pain and death that their war brought to us."

"But you're not going to come back from that battle," Chill said. "I know you said you wanted to. I know you want us to have our own territory, and live there together, just the two of us…but you can't be happy."

Lion's eyes widened. "I can be happy with you. I love you, son."

He reached down to touch Chill's head again, but the tom shied away.

"You still whisper Clover's name in your sleep," he said. "You still twitch when you dream as if you're fighting enemies that aren't really there. You still mumble about failing her. And sometimes, when you wake up, you stare at me, and it's like you don't recognize me at all."

Lion's gaze searched the white tom's face, looking for any scrap of familiarity. The white tom looked nothing like Clover, or Lion himself, and he felt the smallest prickle of doubt. The back of his mind, the only part that still clung tenuously to reality, whispered, _He is not your son, _but his heart roared, _Yes he is. _

"I will come back," he growled, his voice low. "And we will be happy. I promise you that."

"But why?" Chill asked. "Why would you promise me that?"

He looked up at Lion with wide, icy eyes, and even the rational part of his mind was silenced as he saw the young tom's vulnerability, his silent yearning.

"Because," Lion said, reaching down once more to touch Chill's head. "Because I have you to return to."

This time Chill did not move away, even when Lion rasped his tongue over his white fur and gently nosed him in the direction of home.

**AN: Chilly and Lion's relationship is critical to Chilled, but we don't really get to explore it all that often.**

**A pity that even though he truly made this promise when he made it, the despair and grief he felt for his family still led to his downfall in the end.**

**Not entirely happy with this one, because it's on the short side, but ah well.**


	25. 24 Forced

**24. Forced**

Nearby, he can hear the sniffling of the one called Green. Green isn't his name, only what their mother had called him to tell him apart from the others, because of his green eyes. None of them have true names. They don't know why, only that names are something to be earned, not handed out freely.

He knows that he should comfort the one called Green, but his body is aching with weariness. Only a few hours before he had been feeling the worst pain of his life, and a few wounds are still sluggishly oozing blood. Even moving forward to touch his brother's pelt with his nose seems like a colossal effort.

Out of the three of them, it is the one called Fleck who is doing the best. He is the only one out of their litter to share his father's distinctly flecked coat, and this sets him apart from his brothers. He is the one that their father has hope for - not the one called Green, nor the one called Paws. He has, so far, been able to avoid most of the blows his father has tried to give him, and he has not crumpled under the pressure.

It is the one called Paws who has been largely ignored. The one called Green has received the brunt of their father's wrath, the one called Fleck has received a touch of their father's mercy, but it is the one called Paws - called this because of his large paws, hinting that someday he will be much stronger than he is now, that someday he will be more than a fragile twig ready to snap - who has remained almost invisible. And this is how he wants it.

He doesn't know what his father wants from him. He doesn't know why the three of them have been stolen away. He doesn't know what Fate has planned for them. All he knows is that he misses the scent of his mother's fur and the feeling of the scraps of cloth in their nest against his belly.

It's several hours before his aching allows him to sleep. The last thing he hears before drowsing off is the continuing whimpers of his brother.

. . .

The second day of their training begins at dawn. Their father invades their make-shift den - located underneath an old Twoleg nest, nothing more than a hollow dug into the mud - with a fearsome growl, and the first thing the one called Paws feels is his father's claws raking over his pelt. His father moves on to the others, but the one called Fleck is already awake and manages to move out of the way before he is injured. The one called Green is not so lucky. His yowl of pain splits the air, but their father does not stop. The other two shrink back and watch with terror as their father tears into their brother, but they make no move to help him.

It isn't long until the one called Green falls silent.

Their father's claws are slick with his blood, and he looks at the two of them with emotionless yellow eyes. He steps away from the body of their brother.

"He is the first to fall," their father rumbles. "Who will be the second?"

The remaining two brothers glance at one another, their eyes radiating uncertainty and fear. Their father waits, but they do not speak, and his eyes narrow.

"We'll know before the moon is over," he says, and glances down to the still body. "Bury it in your nest. We're moving."

They do what they say because they has no choice, and their father watches them the entire time. The one called Paws does his best not to look into those blank, staring green eyes, but he knows they will still be haunting his dreams.

When the burial is finished, their father leads them away, down a long path of stone and gray walls. They don't know where they're going, but it doesn't matter. This is what their lives are now, a winding, endless maze, and they aren't sure they will ever be able to escape it.

They settle near another old Twoleg nest, abandoned like the others, and their training begins again. Their father lunges and strikes them, moving too fast to be avoided, always with his accusing yellow eyes. He snarls at them, calling them weak and spineless, and somehow this hurts more than his claws.

The one called Paws had never known his father until the day before. He had never come when they were kits, never visited their mother. Their mother had spoken of him rarely, and without any fondness, but he had always imagined his father to be someone brave and noble. Never had he thought that his father would be this brutal, this tyrannical, this terrifying.

He doesn't let them rest until the moon is hanging over their heads. Only then does he allow them to slink into the shadows and lick their wounds. This time it is the hunger pangs, not sniffling, that keeps the young tom awake for hours.

. . .

The following days are more of the same, until they all begin to blend together and he can't distinguish one from the next. He can barely remember his mother now, so even imagining her fur can't comfort him. Once he dreamed of escaping, but now he dreams of his dead brother coming to him and taking him out of his aching, worn-down body.

But he is growing. The growth spurt that his mother predicted is under way, or at least the first leg of it. Already he is a head taller than the one called Fleck, and although he is clumsy and slow, there is power behind his blows. His father looks at them as equals now, and the one called Fleck is no longer able to escape his wrath.

The one called Paws is no longer invisible, and he doesn't like it.

The two brothers are pitted against one another now, forced to spar while their father watches and jeers at their weakness and stumbling paws. Whoever wins is allowed to take the first few bites of whatever their father brings back. Whoever loses is given only what remains. The one called Fleck almost always wins, and he is shrewd enough to stuff as much prey as he can into each bite before he is forced to concede the scraps to his brother. The one called Paws can no longer remember a time when he was not hungry.

Their father is building to something, but they don't know what. There is a gleam in his yellow eyes now when he strikes them that tells them something is coming, but they don't understand it. Their father is like a storm, rushing over them and leaving them deaf, blind, and confused. They can't comprehend him, and they don't try. They simply wait until the storm passes, and pick up the pieces he leaves behind.

One day, he wakes them without a blow. His low growl jolts them awake, and they blink up at him blearily, wondering what new torture he's conceived. But he barely spares the one called Paws a glance, flicking his tail towards his flecked son instead. The one called Fleck gives a nervous glance towards his brother, but follows his father without question. The two of them disappear from view.

They don't return until late in the evening. The one called Fleck is trembling, his yellow eyes glassy, and he does not speak when his brother questions him. His body is unmarked by any injury, but there is a hollowness to his gaze that his brother does not understand.

Their father has brought back a mouse, and he lays it down in front of his larger son. The one called Paws looks to his brother, confused by this shift in his father's behavior, but his brother does not look at him. The one called Paws does not question his father's generosity for long, and eats the entire mouse, although with each bite he waits for his father to take it and give the scraps to his brother. But his father does not.

When the older tom leaves, he questions his brother again. This time, the one called Fleck speaks, but only says one sentence:

"You'll see for yourself soon enough."

The next day the fleck-furred brother is taken out again, and the next, but each time he seems to have disappointed their father, for he receives no prey while the one called Paws eats. And he still remains silent, even when his brother presses him for information, only staring ahead with blank eyes..

And then, one day his father returns home without the one called Fleck. There is blood on his claws again, and the remaining tom's stomach rolls as he realized what has happened. Somehow, his brother has failed their father one too many times. Even his distinctive pelt could not save him.

And he knows that it is his turn.

. . .

They have moved homes again, and he has forced himself to shed the memory of his second brother just as he did with his first brother and his mother. He is a clean slate now, desperate to stay alive, and eager to do whatever his father says. But even still, when his father leads him away just as he had the one called Fleck, he cannot help but be afraid.

They weave through the tangled city streets and dark alleys, and this time it seems to him that the city is more understandable than before. Perhaps it is because he has grown in the past moon, or perhaps it is because he knows that paying attention might save his life. Either way, when they finally come to a stop he knows exactly how to get home.

They are in a strange part of the city, one that is unfamiliar to him. There's more grass here, and the Twoleg nests have large spaces in between, and yet for someone the Twolegs have boxed themselves in with strange wooden walls. He looks to his father, but the old tom says nothing. Then, he leaps up onto one of the wooden walls, and his son understands that he is expected to follow.

It takes him two tries, for the first time his shoulder gives out due to an old wound, but the second time he manages to hook his front paws onto the fence. His father doesn't move to help him, and he strains to pull himself up, panting with exertion as he succeeds.

His father begins walking, and his son follows, ignoring the prick of the rough wood against his pads. The fences are all connected, and his father chooses their path with careful deliberateness, until they come to a stop on a fence looking over a yard like any other, save for the two kits tumbling underneath a bush.

One is gray, one is white, and the two of them are both squealing with delight as they wrestle one another. He wonders where their mother is, why she isn't there to protect them. Doesn't she understand how dangerous life can be, when they are so fragile?

She will soon.

"Choose one to live, and one to die."

He looks to his father, but he is like stone, unflinching. And the one called Paws understands that this is the choice his brother couldn't make, the one he is now forced to.

He looks down at them. They are half his age, at most. Two moons, perhaps less. And they are completely oblivious to the danger above them. It does not even cross their young minds to look up. Why would they? All they know is this grass and this bush. Their world doesn't extend beyond the yard, to the dangerous city streets and shadowed alleys, to the Twoleg nests where anything can happen without anyone knowing about it. They think they are safe.

And they are wrong.

And then the kits do look up, just for a minute, and his eyes meet hers. They are green, set in white fur, and that makes his decision. He looks to his father, and points to the gray kit, the male. His father flicks his tail.

"Do it."

He hesitates, and now both kits are watching him, looking curious and unguarded. He leaps down, and now that he has entered they domain, fear flits over their faces. They do not understand strangers, and he can see from the way their eyes flit over his wounds - some old, some new - that they do not know what to make of him. But they are afraid.

The male kit is slightly in front of his sister, perhaps to protect her. This detail makes itself known in the back of his mind, but he pushes it away as he takes a step towards the two kits. They shrink back, and the white one's mouth opens, as if to mewl for her mother.

He hesitates again, seeing himself trapped in their eyes, seeing them mirror the fear and uncertainty that he had experienced when his father had taken him and his brothers away from the only home they had ever known. But the world is a dangerous place, a horrible place, and they are just as likely to be hurt as badly as he was. He can make the gray kit's leaving painless. He can help the gray kit escape the same torture that he underwent.

It is then that he strikes.

The gray kit doesn't have a chance to cry out before his jaws are around his throat. He hesitates then, for a moment, and his gaze flicks up to his father. His father's yellow eyes are as cool as always, and he nods.

The one called Paws bites down.

The kit's heartbeat fades.

The sister cowers beneath their bush.

And his father's eyes remain cold.

"Now her."

He releases the gray kit's body and looks up to his father. He doesn't understand. He chose for her to live. But his father is unyielding and unflinching, and slowly he turns to face the white kit. Her green eyes are wide now, seeming enormous in her small face, and she continues to wiggle back into the safety of the bush. A slight tremor runs through his legs, but he forces himself forward, stooping to reach underneath the bush with one large paw. And again, he tells himself that he is sparing her some pain. After all, who is to say that her father is not a monster, just like his?

He swipes at her, but misses; the second time he manages to grab her leg. He pulls her, inch by painful inch, into his reach. All the while, she screeches and screams, crying out for a mother who cannot come in time. He can see her now, trapped behind a clear barrier within the Twoleg nest. Her paws are pressed against it, and her mouth is opened wide in a pained yowl, but she is unable to escape.

The white kit is finally close enough for him to grab her with his other paw, and he pulls her up to him, ignoring her faint whimpers of pain. She's stopped struggling now, and stares up at him with frightened eyes. He feels a flutter of unease, but he knows that if he does not complete this task, he will end up like his brothers, buried somewhere without anyone to mourn him. He's certain that even his mother has forgotten them by now; she is probably readying herself for a new litter, as he is sure she has done before.

He does not want to fade away. He wants to be remembered.

Gently, he takes the kit's body in his jaws, and snuffs out her light. He lays her on the grass, next to her brother, and if it weren't for the blood dotting their coats, they would look as if all of their play had simply worn them out. Their mother has stopped yowling now, and is simply leaning against the surface that imprisons her, keening for her young.

He looks up to his father, and the flecked tom nods.

"Now it begins," he says. "That was your first lesson. Your choices do not matter in life, death, anything. Your Master is the one who will decide everything for you. You are nothing without him."

The one called Paws only has a moment to blink at the strangeness of that word, Master, before his father summons him and they continue on their way.

. . .

It has been nine moons now since he was first taken from his mother. Nine moons minus a day since the one called Green died. Eight moons and a day since the one called Fleck died. Eight moons since his first and second kills. Eight moons since he has spoken to anyone aside from his father. Eight moons since he first heard the word 'Master.'

He is large now, and strong. He is silent, and obedient. He is calm, and level-headed. But most of all right now, he is nervous as he and his father walk the streets together, for it is today that his training finally ends. It is today that he gets his Master - or rather, his Master gets him.

His father signals for him to stop, and then continues on without him. He waits for several hours until the flecked tom returns, this time with a companion. The other tom is young, no more than six moons. His fur is still soft with kit-fluff, but underneath the down there are sharp tabby markings.

His eyes are green.

His father pauses, and the young tom steps forward. His eyes flick over the one called Paws, taking in his scars, his torn ear, his squared shoulders. He remains rigid, his breath caught in his throat. He wants to impress his Master, but does not want to act without his approval. Finally, the young tom smiles.

"What's it's name?" he asks, looking to the flecked tom.

"That is for you to decide, Tobias," the older tom replies. "He is yours now."

It has never been so shamefully apparent to the tom that he does not have a name. This kit, his Master, probably had 'Tobias' chosen for him by his parents before he was even born, but his servant has never deserved to carry one until this day. His ears burn, but he waits for the tom's judgment.

"For me to decide?" Tobias echoes. He mulls it over for a moment, before his green eyes glitter. There is pride in his youthful face as he says, "Shackle, because he is mine and mine alone."

And just like that, there is a chain between them, a bond of duty, forged by moons of separation, conditioning, sparring and loss. It is the strongest he has ever known, and one that he is ready to die to defend.

He did not choose this life, but as he has been told for eight moons, his choices do not matter.

His father does not say goodbye. He only walks away, disappearing into the shadows now that his duty is done.

**AN: I love Shackle. :I**

**He's moving up my character-tier quite rapidly, up there with Northstar, Darkstorm, Shimmerfrost, and Chillpaw.**


	26. 25 Reversed

**AN: Sorry for the confusion! Shackle, from the last chapter and Presence, is a role-play character of mine. He's not connected to the universe of my fics in any way, I just like writing about him. Same goes for his daddy.**

**25. Reversed**

When he opened his eyes, he wasn't sure where he was.

It wasn't surprising; he had been half-conscious when the goons had dragged him into the darkness, after all. He could feel a lump forming on the back of his head where he had been struck, but he didn't wince. He flexed his claws, testing the ground; it seemed to be some sort of mud. It was cool, suggesting that it received little sunlight during the day, and slightly damp. Pricking his ears, he paused to let the city whisper to him.

He was outside, that much he could discern, but when he looked upwards he could not see the sky. He rose to his paws, and stars danced before his eyes for a moment. He paused, waiting for his vision to clear, before rearing onto his back legs. His head touched some sort of ceiling, and he frowned.

_Must be underneath some sort of Twoleg construct, _he mused. _Some of them, the older ones, are built off of the ground…to avoid flooding, I suppose. _

Something seemed vaguely familiar to him, but he brushed it away. Every hair on his flecked pelt was prickling with unease; he had some idea of where he was now, since nests like these were only in a few parts of Twolegplace, but he did not remember why he had been taken.

He remained still for a long moment, listening to the crickets chirp. It was dark - the moon was slim - and he could see very little. There were pillars supporting the Twoleg nest above his head, but other than that, he could see nothing. His nose assured him that there were guards nearby, probably belonging to whoever had ordered him to be taken.

_They're probably on every side, _he thought, but began walking forward anyway, picking his way over the dank ground with care. Moving gave him something to do, even if he was truly surrounded.

Then, his paw touched something sharp and jagged, and he stumbled. He stared down intently at what had tripped him up, but could make out little in the gloom. Carefully, he dipped his head down lower, only to recoil as he realized that the dim white shapes before him were _bones. _

_Could it be…? _he wondered, and the familiarity of the place suddenly made sense. This was where he had first brought them, the three nameless kits that he had trained. This was where he had slayed the first, because he had been too weak, pathetic, foolish to serve as a proper servant.

He knew why he was here.

He bowed his head. _Of course. No one can cause suffering and pain for long before it catches up to them. There is a circle to these sorts of things, and it seems that it is my turn to be the damaged party._

He sat down, next to what remained of his son's body. How long had it been since he had killed him? More than a year, certainly. Two? Longer? He had no idea. He had never intended on coming back here.

_Did they pick this place on purpose? _he wondered, before shaking himself. It was unlikely. This just happened to be a convenient place to commit unspeakable crimes without anyone else finding out. He was sure other such acts had been done here long before he killed his son, and probably long after. He would just be another one on the list, another forgotten victim.

_Victim, _he thought, smiling to himself, although he was devoid of amusement. _I think I am one 'victim' that no one will mourn for._

There was a sudden crackle nearby, and he stiffened. He could make out a dim shape striding forward, and his ears lowered as he recognized the broad-shouldered shape: Castion, one of the strongest toms in the city, and the most influential boss. He dipped his head in respect, but knew it would win him no favors with the muscular tabby. He knew exactly what Castion was here for, and now understood exactly why he had been captured.

"My son is dead," Castion rumbled. His green eyes were harsh, like chips of stone as he stared down at the flecked tom.

"I know," he answered. "I'm sorry for your loss. But-"

"You promised that your servant would protect him," the boss said. He was not hissing - not yet - but his voice was low, and as deadly as venom.

"My so...Shackle did exactly what he was ordered," he meowed. "If your son ordered him to stay behind, there was nothing Shackle could do. The only one you should blame for your son's death is the cat that actually killed him, not his servant."

Distantly, he noticed that Castion's claws were unsheathed.

"Do not tell me who to blame!" the tabby shouted, his voice echoing off of the ceiling above them, losing itself in the mud. His green eyes flickered with anger, but the flecked tom did not drop his gaze. He was already dead: whether he was complacent or defiant in his last moments, the end result would be the same.

"I explained the risks to you and your family when you first requested a servant," he said, keeping the tremor out of his voice. "If your son told him not to come with him, that was his mistake, not mine."

"Don't talk to me about Tobias," Castion seethed. "We took care of you. We made sure you were able to travel through our lands without hassle, that others would offer you prey and shelter when you needed it, that you would be treated with respect by the common soldiers. And in return, you provided my son with an ignorant, sluggish, _worthless_-"

"Shackle was not worthless!" he snarled, fury rising up inside of him. "He was the perfect specimen: obedient, devoted, powerful. He would have done everything your son had ever asked, to a T. Your son is not dead because he failed. He is dead because he sent _mine _away."

The blow was too fast for him to see, let alone dodge. One moment he was staring up at Castion with hot anger in his eyes, the next he was sprawled in the mud like a worm. Castion was a feared boss for a reason.

He tried rising to his paws, only to find the tabby tom pinning him down. Castion leaned down, close enough that the flecked tom could feel his hot breath on his face.

"You failed me, Stone," he hissed. "You promised me the perfect servant, and all I have to show for it is a dead son. Yours is nowhere to be seen. I hope for his sake he slunk off somewhere to die, because when I find him, I'll gut him. But first…there's you." His eyes narrowed. "Rumor has it you used some nasty methods to twist your sons into servants for their betters. How else are you supposed to make a cat - how did you put it? Obedient, devoted, powerful?"

He dug his claws into the flecked tom's flesh, but Stone did not flinch. "We'll see how you like it when the tables are turned."

With that, he stepped back, but there was no time for Stone to rise to his paws. Dark guards, those that had been lurking on the fringes before, had stepped forward. They moved between Castion and Stone, creating a shadowy, unyielding wall.

"Enjoy the night air," Castion said, his infamous smile curling his muzzle, before he turned and padded away. "The boys will take good care of you."

. . .

He was having a difficult time remembering how it felt to wake up in the morning without pressure on your chest and claws tearing into your pelt, or how the night air tasted when it wasn't heavy with blood.

Whatever Castion had heard, it paled to what he had truly done to his sons, but that did not mean it was not debilitating, humiliating, and agonizing. In a cosmic sense, he supposed it made sense. 'What goes around comes around,' and all that. Part of him welcomed the beatings and the sleepless nights, as some sort of penance for all that he had done to his sons, but the rest of him - the feral half, the half that had forced him into taking up the position of 'mentor' so that he could get ahead, despite the devastation he would cause - fought against it like a mad beast.

Not that it mattered. There were too many of them, and they were too strong, not to mention well-rested and not half-starved. He was as powerless to stop them as a baby mouse was to a monster. As powerless as a few kits who had been dragged away from their mother were against a remorseless tom.

Castion visited now and then, mostly to watch but sometimes to participate. It got to the point where Stone could recognize him by smell alone - fish and soft cloth mixed together, two of the perks of being a powerful tom - well before the tabby came into view. The smell was always accompanied by a sense of dread, for no matter how cruel his guards were, with them it was cold, distant. With Castion, it was very, very personal.

_It was nice, _he thought, as Castion's claws slashed towards his face, _to have been able to keep my eyes for this long. I expected this much sooner._

And when the searing pain came, he did not struggle, only thought of the first son that he had killed, whose bones rested just a few fox-lengths away. He'd had his mother's eyes.

. . .

Even in his dreams, he could no longer see.

He didn't think it was supposed to be that way - surely the mind would seize onto the lost sense, even magnify it when reality was no longer a barrier, as in dreams? - but what he thought didn't matter, for his dreams were always dark, cold, and vacant. There would be sounds, certainly. Smells too, sometimes tastes, even feelings like his fur brushing against another pelt or warm mud at his paws, but there was never anything to see.

Perhaps, he rationalized sometimes, it was that his mind wanted him kept in the dark, where he belonged.

Castion certainly enjoyed keeping him in the shadows, for he was not allowed to stray away from his muddy nest, not for any reason, until the day he brushed past the guards with a swagger in his step.

"We've finally caught wind of your son," he said, and Stone could hear the leering in his voice. "Cowardly thing, isn't he? He's run off into the forest. Apparently this was some time ago, but we're only hearing of it now because he's been stirring up trouble. Attacking the locals, and such. They're none too pleased, Stone. Apparently he's been out of our fine city for a long time now, while we were combing it, looking for his flea-bitten pelt."

Castion leaned closer, and his fishy scent was almost overwhelming. "When we get our claws on him, we're going to gut him. We're going to display his innards for the whole city to see, and leave him gasping for breath. A cat can survive a long time like that…but you already know that, don't you? Your methods of cruelty are known all over Twolegplace, Stone. You're as ruthless as they come. You're like a rabid dog that I've kept on the chain for the safety of everyone, but now…I think I'm going to let you go."

THe flecked tom couldn't stop surprise from rippling through him. Never had it entered his mind that Castion would relinquish him. Drawing out the torture for as long as possible? Yes. Keeping him barely alive, hungry and sleep-deprived? Sure. Giving him his freedom? Never.

"I don't believe you," he said, and his voice was much weaker than he would have liked.

Castion let out a throaty chuckle. "You're shrewd, Stone. That's what's kept you alive. That's what I need from you. Your brain, your brutality, your inability to let anything out of your grasp…Shackle was just as much your property as he was my son's, and since Tobias is dead, that places him squarely in _your _paws." As he spoke, he dug his claws into Stone's forepaws, and the flecked tom hissed quietly.

"What I want is very simple," Castion breathed. "I want you to find your son - don't protest that you can't without your vision, because we both know nothing as insignificant as that would ever stop you - and crush him. Tear down all the lies you've told him, all those so-called secrets and valiant truths that he thinks he knows. And then…bring him here, to me, so that my son's spirit can rest in peace."

He was rigid. "I will not."

Castion laughed again, a low, ugly sound. "Reluctant to destroy the 'perfect specimen,' I see? Understandable, given how much your technique has changed since your first few tries. He might very well be the last one of your hideous experiments left, no?" There it was again, that arrogant chuckle. Tobias had been more like his father than either of them had known. "Well, what if I told you that he was not the last?"

Stone stiffened despite himself, and he could practically hear Castion smile.

"There's another," the tabby growled. "Your very first. What was it that his Master named him, now? I'm afraid I don't remember."

"Jackal." The word tore itself from his clenched jaws.

"Yes, that. Such a stupid name, but she was never bright…except for that fur of hers." Another laugh. "He was a mess, wasn't he? Unpredictable, volatile. Nothing like your precious Shackle. But he still exists, a remnant of your crafty plan."

"It wasn't _my _plan."

"Of course. There were cats higher than you pulling the strings, like a spider with its web. But you were part of the scheme too. A failed one, unfortunately. No young cat can be allowed that kind of power. Having a cat serving as your tool, your devoted slave, your plaything…it goes right to their heads. Even older ones would have trouble, but you can't give them to older cats either, can you? Can't have the servant outliving the Master. Although, your servants never do last long…." There was a hiss in his voice now. "You break them down before they're given the opportunity to build themselves up. You take years off of their lives to craft the perfect servant. Your own sons, Stone. Your own flesh and blood. Doesn't that bother you?" His voice had risen to a snarl, but Stone remained stiff.

"Jackal was not my flesh and blood."

He heard Castion flick his tail dismissively. "He's the exception. And the only non-perfect cat left. Amusing. Now then." His voice had turned back to steel. "Whether you like it or not, you are going to do as I ask, because _I _am your Master now. We won't have to worry about you outliving me, and you will do exactly as I ask, because if you do not then your existence will be more painful than you could ever imagine. I'm eager to try out your techniques, and if not on your son, it might as well be you. Understand?"

"You'll only turn on me once I complete my task," Stone said.

"You have my word that I will not," Castion said. "I care nothing for you. The knowledge that your precious idea of Masters and servants failed should be crushing enough, along with the destruction of your perfect specimen. That's all I desire of you. Once you turn in your son, you're free as a bird."

Stone's thoughts were moving as quickly as ever, but after moons of being held prisoner, he had lost the ability to keep track of them. _If I do, I shall suffer more than my sons ever did, _he thought. _If I do not, I will suffer more than any cat ever has._

"Fine," he answered, his voice a broken wheeze, and Castion let out a purr of pleasure.

"Excellent. That wasn't so hard now, was it? Face it, Stone. No matter how much you tried to push down your sons, to convince them that they were less than dirt, it was always meant to be _you _who was the lowest. You managed to delay it, but it was inevitable. And now you are even less than a servant, a slave, or a tool, because once you complete this task for me, you will be _nothing, _here or anywhere else_. _I will destroy your legacy, and by the time I'm gone, no one will remember your name."

He heard the tabby rise to go, heard him pad a few steps away, before he paused once more.

"It's only fitting that I rename you, then, if I am to destroy your old identity," he said. "It took me some time to find the perfect name, one that will echo in your mind and remind you of your failures for as long as you shall live. How do you like Fetter? I think it has a certain ring to it. It suits you, since you and Shackle were more alike than you could have ever known, no matter how much you tried to fight your destiny. But that battle is over.

"Your life as my servant begins now."

And with that, the boss left, never to return to the filthy Twoleg nest again. His guards filed after him, one by one, until Fetter was left with only the smell of mud, blood, and bones.

**AN: If you guys want to know more about the Master/servant stuff, I'd be more than happy to explain it a bit more on the blog. Just ask. :)**


	27. 26 Cast Away

**AN: This is a challenge, written for the Warrior's Challenge Forum! I was given Kestrelwing, told he twisted his paw, and given his wish (to become a warrior). The challenge was to show his efforts towards that goal, and whether or not he reached it. For fun, I demoted him to an apprentice.**

**26. Cast Away**

He knew without even opening his eyes that he was alone, save for Smokethorn. He could hear the shuffling of the medicine cat's paws, his low grunts, his tail flicking over the dusty ground. Aside from the elderly medicine cat, the den was completely silent.

_No visitors, _he thought with a quiet sigh, and dared to open his eyes. He was greeted by the medicine cat's big gray rump, which wasn't exactly a pleasing sight.

_When was the last time he groomed his tail? _he wondered, then blinked. _Or the rest of his coat, really._

Even though he hadn't made any noise, Smokethorn still seemed to know that he was awake. He looked over his shoulder with a squint, his amber eyes narrowed.

"About time," the medicine cat grunted. "I thought you were going to sleep the entire day away."

"It's not like there's a point to me waking up, is there?" the apprentice pointed out. "I'm just going to be stuck in here for another day."

Smokethorn's sharp gaze offered him no sympathy. "Yes, whine about it. That will make everything better, now won't it?" He snorted, turning back to his herbs. The apprentice glared at him, his gaze shooting daggers into the gray tom's pelt, but Smokethorn didn't seem to notice.

_What am I supposed to do? _he thought, irritation prickling over his fur. _Since I got stuck in here, hardly anyone's come to seen me…even Mother's too busy._

He stared down at his paws, seeing how his left forepaw was twisted to the side, the tabby stripes curling at an unnatural angle. He had been brave, everyone said so. He'd done the right thing. He'd saved Emberpaw, after all.

_But was it worth it? _he wondered, feeling self-loathing wash over him as soon as he let the thought float up. _Of course I had to do it. I couldn't let Emberpaw drown. But my paw…it will never be the same. And I…I might never become a warrior now._

He rasped his tongue over his twisted paw, half enjoying the pain that lanced through him. Sometimes it seemed like he was the only one who still remembered that he was _here. _Emberpaw hadn't visited, even though the reason he was stuck in the den was because he had half-drowned himself saving her.

Another prickle ran through him, and he scowled. Anger crackled over his fur like hot lightning, and he was almost surprised that Smokethorn couldn't smell the scorched fur.

As if on cue, the medicine cat glanced at him again. "You got a problem?"

He realized he had been staring at the gray tom's tail again, and the apprentice quickly shook his head. Smokethorn paused in his herb-sorting, and he studied the apprentice for a long moment.

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

The apprentice blinked. "Do?"

"Are you just going to sit here feeling sorry for yourself?" Smokethorn asked. He turned, and the apprentice couldn't help but stare at where one of the medicine cat's back legs ended in a stump instead of a paw. He'd never asked the gray tom what had happened; stories circulated amongst the apprentices, but no one seemed to know for sure what had transpired.

"What am I supposed to do?" the apprentice snapped. He knew he shouldn't raise his voice at the older tom - after all, he was the only one who knew the difference between poppy seeds and foxglove seeds - but he couldn't help it. He'd been stuck in the medicine den for days now, grappling with the fact that his greatest dream, his one desire since he was but a tiny kit, was now outside his grasp.

"Come on, Kestrelpaw. Think. You've been cast away by the Clan. They've turned their backs on you, because you're of no use to them now, since you can't become a warrior. Are you going to let that rule you?" Smokethorn's eyes were as sharp as flint. "Are you going to let someone else dictate your destiny?"

Kestrelpaw's ears flattened. "What choice do I have?"

Smokethorn snorted. "There's always a choice. How do you think I felt when I lost my paw, eh? I didn't grow up wanting to be a medicine cat. I moped around just like you, for quite a long time. Unlike you, I didn't even save the she-cat I was trying to protect. The Clan was even more disgusted with me. The medicine cat told me later that he'd considered just letting me bleed out, since I wouldn't have much of a life to look forward to." The gray tom sat down, curling his thick, matted tail around his paws. "It took me a long time - and a queen dying while she was kitting - to face that I had no choice but to become a medicine cat if I ever want to be useful."

Kestrelpaw's lip curled. "I don't want to be a medicine cat."

Smokethorn quirked an eyebrow. "Why not? You don't have much else to look forward to. It's not all that bad. Having your paws bathed in your Clanmates' blood on a regular basis is almost refreshing." He let out a bitter chuckle.

The apprentice's eyes narrowed. "If you still hate it so much, why have you kept at it for all these years? A cat your age would normally be in the elders den. No offense."

"Because if I give up, they win," Smokethorn answered. "They say to themselves 'Smokethorn had a good run, didn't he? But now he's in the elders den, where he belonged all along.' There's no way I'm letting that happen. I fully intend to die in this den. That's why I haven't taken an apprentice, you know. As soon as I do, Gingerstar will be watching me, just waiting to send me off to the elders den as soon as my apprentice knows enough to get by."

Kestrelpaw only blinked at the medicine cat for a long moment. All the apprentices knew that Smokethorn was prickly, but he'd never known that there was this much bitterness dwelling behind every word.

"No offense, but I don't want to be like you," he said. "I don't want to be cooped up in a musty old den all the time. I don't want to push around smelly herbs and sit back while everyone else fights and defends the Clan. I want to be right out there in the thick of it."

"Well," said the medicine cat, "with the little determination you're showing right now, I'd say you will never make it."

. . .

Smokethorn's words kept him up all night. He stared out of the den's entrance, wondering if the gray tom was right. Was it worth it, to give up his dreams just to spite the Clan? Was he better off in the medicine den, than pursuing a flawed idea? He'd never be a perfect warrior, he knew that. With his bad paw, he could only slash at enemies with one forepaw, his pouncing and stalking would be unbalanced, and his jumping would need hours of work. He would never be the warrior that he had always dreamed of becoming.

_But isn't that still better than this? _he wondered, looking towards the sleeping medicine cat, whose chest rattled with each breath. _I don't want to be trapped here, clinging to my post just because it's all I have. Medicine cats are _lonely. _They have to keep everything to themselves, they can't take a mate, they have to stay near camp just in case they're needed…._

He tore his eyes away from Smokethorn, and his brow furrowed. _I have to try, at least. If…if I'm not strong enough to be a warrior, I have to know that I at least gave it a shot. _

He took a deep breath, steeling his courage, before forcing himself to stand. Immediately, a shock of pain ran through his body as he tried putting weight on his injured paw. The rest of his body - battered from the heavy rocks scattered throughout the river, which he had been smashed against repeatedly by the current - complained as well, but he ignored it. He tucked his injured paw up against his chest, and began hobbling forwards, towards the entrance of the den.

Walking with three legs was harder than he had originally counted on, and he found himself tumbling to the ground more than once. Each time, his injured leg was pressed into the dirt, and he let out a muffled hiss of pain. But each time, he forced himself back up, until he was finally able to collapse in the entrance of the den. His breath came in pants, but he couldn't help the flood of satisfaction that crashed over him. It was a tiny victory, but a victory nonetheless.

_I can't hobble over the battlefield with three legs,_ he thought, and then, just like that, the sense of triumph was gone. His ears flattened, and he stared down at his twisted paw. _Eventually I have to learn to walk on it, don't I? But with the amount of pain it causes, I can't see ever being able to move quickly, not without chewing up a mountain of poppy seeds first…._

He closed his eyes, a tremor of sorrow running through him. _I'll never be the warrior I wanted to be. I'll never be _any _warrior, not like this._

A paw nudged his shoulder, and he nearly leaped out of his fur. He turned to find Smokethorn's amber eyes glowing down at him, his gray fur glinting dully in the moonlight.

"Back into the den," the elderly tom rumbled.

"I was taking your advice," Kestrelpaw said, struggling to rise. "I was trying to see if I could do it…be a warrior, I mean."

"Walking out of dens is a very important skill for warriors to master," Smokethorn growled, but his amber eyes weren't quite as sharp as before. "Come on. You need your rest."

Kestrelpaw limped back to the den, slowly and painfully; Smokethorn did not offer him any support, but he did pause to wait when Kestrelpaw stumbled or tripped.

Finally, the tabby tom curled up in his nest, and Smokethorn settled himself down to sleep.

"I'll never make it, will I?" the apprentice whispered into the darkness. Smokethorn turned to peer at him with one dark eye.

"I told you that, but you didn't listen," Smokethorn answered. "I had no reason to lie to you or your mother."

"But you hinted that it might be possible, if I just tried…."

"Sometimes we have to try and fail, to learn our limits." Smokethorn's eye closed. "It was a worthy effort, but being a warrior isn't in your future. You can't fight fate."

"Then what am I supposed to do?" Kestrelpaw's voice was weak, kit-like. "I don't want to be a medicine cat. I don't want to be trapped."

"This den is only a prison if you allow it to become one," was the medicine cat's reply.

"It's a prison for you."

"It's a prison for those who deserve it."

Kestrelpaw opened his mouth to question him further, but Smokethorn let out a gusty, rattling breath, making it clear that he was finished speaking on the subject. Kestrelpaw remained silent, listening as Smokethorn's wheezing breaths eventually fell into a deep, slow pattern, as the gray tom slid into sleep.

Kestrelpaw's own peace of mind was much slower in arriving.

. . .

By the time he woke up the next morning, Smokethorn was already busy tending to a thorn that had gotten wedged between a young warrior's toes. The warrior - Swiftfoot - didn't look at him as he stirred, keeping his eyes averted as Smokethorn pulled out the thorn. The warrior didn't say a single word to Kestrelpaw as he left the den, didn't even spare him a glance. The apprentice stared after him, before staring down at his paws, ears flat against his head.

_I'm a nobody to them now, _he realized. _Nothing but a burden._

He could feel Smokethorn's eyes on him again, but didn't want to look up and meet them. He knew he wouldn't see any pity there - he wasn't sure the elderly cat was capable of such an emotion - but he would probably see a little disgust.

"Don't let them get under your fur," the medicine cat growled, and Kestrelpaw's head snapped up with surprise. Smokethorn stared him down. "Our 'noble' Clan prides itself on its warriors. Everyone else just slips down into the cracks, until they're buried and forgotten."

"But not you," the apprentice said. "The Clan depends on you, because you're the only healer they have."

Smokethorn dipped his head. "Precisely. They listen to me. They have to, or who knows what sort of revenge I'll take? I'm the one who delivers unto them prophecies. I tend to them when they are at their lowest points. Their lives rest in my paws. If there's a more powerful position in the Clan, I'd like you to find it and point it out to me."

"Is that why you do it? For power?"

The gray tom's lip curled. "I told you. The Clan turned on me, when I was crippled. They wanted nothing to do with me. The only way I could make myself useful was this position, so I took it. And every life I save goes into repaying the debt that I owe, the cats that I let down before. And every time I save a cat, they are forced to look up at me and know that if it wasn't for me, they'd be among the stars. That's the best sort of revenge that I could think of."

Kestrelpaw's pelt prickled. "I don't want to be like that."

"Do you have a choice?"

The apprentice mulled it over for a moment. Did he? It was true that he would never be a warrior. Becoming a medicine cat was his only option. But did he want to be like Smokethorn, trapped in a prison of his own making, cast away from the Clan, clinging to old wrongs?

_No, _he thought. _If this is to be my fate, I'm going to do it right. If the Clan's turned against me, so be it. That doesn't mean I have to turn my back on them._

"I know you said before that you didn't want to take an apprentice," he said softly, "but will you take me? I…I don't have a choice, but to learn from you…and I promise that I won't let Gingerstar remove you from this den. If she tries, I'll tell her that I'll quit." He lifted his muzzle to meet the older tom's eyes, and for a moment the older tom only gazed at him, before his old muzzle curled into a smile.

"Fine," he said. The apprentice only had a brief moment to beam, before the old tom continued, "Now, get over here. Sort these herbs from me, my joints are aching."

Kestrelpaw only blinked at him, and Smokethorn's eyes narrowed.

"Did you think you were just going to sit on your tail as my apprentice? Get over here."

The apprentice hesitated, before rising to his paws. He padded to join the gray tom, and felt a tiny flicker of warmth within him as the gray tom pointed out this herb and that. He was needed, if only for the moment.

. . .

Kestrelpaw panted, leaning against the firm trunk of the oak. He gave his twisted paw a ginger lick, before sweeping his gaze over the forest. _Juniper berries, juniper berries…ah! There they are._

He half-limped towards the little bush, pushing past the prickly leaves to gently grasp them in his teeth. He dropped them onto the broad leaf that he had brought with him. The berries struck the leaf with pleasing thuds, and he smiled to himself.

Being a medicine cat was not what he had expected. There was a lot of time spent in the den, certainly, but there was plenty of time to roam the forest, if he chose. Collecting herbs took up more of his day than he had thought; it seemed that Smokethorn stayed in his den most of the time by choice, rather than necessity. It was a little nerve-wracking, being on his own in the forest, but also strangely relaxing. There was nothing separating him from the forest around him; the prey seemed to know that he posed no threat, for occasionally he would catch sight of beady eyes in the undergrowth, or the flutter of birds above his head.

It had been several moons since he had changed duties. As soon as Smokethorn had announced Kestrelpaw's apprenticeship, things had shifted in the Clan. Cats nodded to him now when they entered the medicine den; there was respect in their eyes when he bound their wounds or prescribed herbs to take for their maladies. He understood now that sense of power that Smokethorn felt, although he was determined to channel it positively, rather than hoarding it like fresh-kill, as the gray tom did.

Thinking of the elderly tom made pity stir in his gut, and he bent down to pick up the leaf in his jaws, clutching it so no berries could fall out. He didn't like leaving Smokethorn by himself for long; whether the medicine cat admitted it or not, Kestrelpaw thought he might like having him around.

He limped back into camp, pausing now and then to take breaks. He was still building up strength on his injured leg, and it was tiring to walk too long without taking a breather.

When he entered camp, he felt the eyes of the Clan on him, but he ignored them, ducking into the medicine den. Smokethorn was curled up in the corner, apparently asleep, but he opened one eye as Kestrelpaw approached him.

"Put the berries over-" he started to growl, motioning with his tail, but Kestrelpaw cut him off with a grin.

"I know where," he said, his voice muffled by the leaf. He laid it down between the marigold and lavender, careful not to let any of the berries roll away or mix with the other herbs; Smokethorn hated the herbs touching one another when they weren't being used in conduction.

"Did you-"

"Yes, I looked for some more cobwebs. I couldn't find any nearby, though, and I had to go out of my way for the berries. I'll look more tomorrow."

Smokethorn squinted at him. "Think you know everything, do you?"

Kestrelpaw settled himself in his nest with a small shrug. "I think I'm getting close," he joked. Smokethorn snorted, shifting his weight to stretch his hind legs.

"Yes, you are." The medicine cat sounded disgruntled for some reason, and Kestrelpaw blinked, wondering if he had done something wrong.

"Are you okay?" he asked, not wanting to anger the gray tabby further.

Smokethorn gave him a cross flick of his ear. "I'm fine. It's Gingerstar who isn't."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, give it a day or two. You'll see," was the medicine cat's cryptic reply. Kestrelpaw was puzzled, but decided not to press the issue.

"Have you eaten yet?" he asked, as his stomach gave a quiet gurgle. Smokethorn's eyes narrowed into slits, and he rested his muzzle on his forepaws. Kestrelpaw took that as a 'no.'

"I'll get us something," he said, rising to his paws.

"Get it for yourself."

"Are you sure you're okay?" he inquired, but the medicine cat didn't answer, simply closing his eyes. The apprentice hesitated, wanting to press him further, but knew Smokethorn wouldn't say anything further. With a quiet sigh, he left the den.

He was hobbling towards the fresh-kill pile when he saw her. Gingerstar was sitting off to the side of camp, watching him keenly. When she realized he had spotted her, she gave him a smile and a beckoning flick of her tail. A little unnerved, the apprentice picked up a finch and limped towards her.

"Hello, Kestrelpaw," she purred, motioning for him to sit. He did so, watching her with caution.

"Go ahead and eat," she said, her voice warm and smooth as honey. "I'm sure you're hungry. You've been working hard lately."

"I guess so," he meowed, his pelt prickling with unease as he pulled out a few feathers before sinking his teeth into the finch's soft body. "Er, what do you need?"

Gingerstar's white-tipped tail curled around her paws like a snake, and she gave him another soothing smile. "Don't worry, it's nothing serious. I was just wondering how Smokethorn was doing."

"He's fine." The apprentice's reply was curter than he had intended, and he flushed underneath his fur with embarrassment. "I mean, he's good. We've been getting along."

"He's old, though, isn't he?" she asked. "I know cats his age can sometimes feel run-down, overburdened. It's good that he has you to help him out, but…do you ever think his judgement might be slipping? That he might be getting just a little too old to do his duties?"

Kestrelpaw stiffened as he remembered Smokethorn's words, moons ago. _Gingerstar will be watching me, just waiting to send me off to the elders den as soon as my apprentice knows enough to get by._

"Like I said, he's good." Kestrelpaw kept his voice low and even, but there was anger crackling behind it.

Gingerstar's eyes narrowed. "Don't take this as a personal offense, Kestrelpaw. I only want what's best for the Clan."

"Smokethorn's served this Clan faithfully for years," Kestrelpaw hissed, "despite the Clan forcing him into his position."

Her eyes widened. "No one _forced _him to do anything-"

"Not with your claws, no, but did he have any choice? As soon as the Clan realized he wasn't good enough to be a warrior, he was nothing to them. _I _was nothing to them. And instead of taking revenge, all he's done is serve his post."

"You know as well as I do that it's out of spite." Gingerstar's voice was edged with thorns now, but he was not afraid. "He can't step down because of his pride."

"He can't step down because the Clan needs him. And if you try to bully him into it, I'm going with him." Kestrelpaw's eyes blazed as he stared his leader down without a trace of fear, despite his heart beating furiously in his chest. "We both know this Clan wouldn't survive without a medicine cat."

Gingerstar met his gaze for several moments. And then, much to his surprise, she faltered.

"I'll have a talk with him later," she said, but there was a note of defeat in her voice.

_Power, _Kestrelpaw thought, feeling a prickle run down his spine.

"Okay." His tone was crisp and businesslike. "I'm going back to the den." He bent down to pick up the finch, thinking that she would stop him, but Gingerstar said nothing as he grasped it in his jaws. He turned away from her without a glance back, padding into the medicine den.

Smokethorn didn't ask about what had kept him, and Kestrelpaw didn't tell him. He didn't need to; he was certain that the gray tom knew exactly what had transpired. Kestrelpaw ate his meal in peace, feeling an odd serenity settling over him.

_Smokethorn was right, _he mused as he polished off his meal. _Without this position, we're invisible. With it, we're unstoppable. _He looked towards the gray tom with new understanding, his eyes tracing over every wrinkle and scar on the elderly tom's face. Smokethorn seemed to be asleep again, but he knew very well that the gray tabby was good at pretending to be something he wasn't.

**AN: After beginning the chapter, I found out that there was a canon meddy named Kestrelwing. Since I was indecisive about his fate, that nudged me over the edge. I love making connections, so he is that canon meddy (he showed up in FQ, and one of the field guides, according to the wiki). Canon didn't mention a twisted paw, but that's part of the fun.**

**This turned out very differently that I had planned, and I'm going to make it a two-parter. The second part will be the next chapter, Emotions.**


	28. 27 Emotions

**27. Emotions**

He awoke to a nose nudging him roughly, jostling his bad leg. When he blinked his eyes open, he found Smokethorn frowning down at him.

"What is it?" he asked groggily, moving to sit up.

"Tonight is the half moon," the older medicine cat replied, turning to look at the herb store.

"I know, that's why I'm sleeping." Kestrelpaw rubbed one eye with his paw. "You always make me stay up when you go to the Moonstone, just in case anything happens in camp. I was trying to sleep now so I could be rested up for that."

"You're coming with me."

Kestrelpaw's eyes widened. Despite the fact that he had been in training for several moons now, he had never actually made the trek to see their warrior ancestors. Because of his injured leg, he had always thought the journey was beyond him. He had dreamed of a few signs before - small things, like the whitecough that spread through the kits, and when a fox had lingered in the territory for a few days - but had never actually seen a StarClan cat face-to-face.

Excitement raced through him, but was quickly dampened by worry. "Are you sure I can make it, with my leg? I mean, the Moonstone is awfully far away…."

Smokethorn's expression was skeptical. "At least you have all four paws. If I can do it, you can. Get up."

Kestrelpaw rose to his feet with some amount of hesitation; he knew better than to contradict the older medicine cat, but at the same time he was doubtful of his own abilities, and terrified to fail. He knew Smokethorn always left camp early to ensure that he would reach the Moonstone in time to dream, but it seemed that today they were leaving even earlier to make sure that Kestrelpaw didn't slow them down. He had been practicing walking further, but he had never gone as far as the Thunderpath, let alone Mothermouth.

"Here. I've already got your traveling herbs picked out," the gray tom grunted, nudging a packet towards Kestrelpaw. The tabby felt a prickle of anxiety as he watched Smokethorn eat his own herbs - the old tom always grimaced at the taste - before tentatively biting into them. The bitter taste flooded his mouth, and he quickly swallowed, before making a sound of disgust.

Smokethorn only watched him. "Are you done?"

Kestrelpaw wanted to rub his paws over his tongue, but he nodded. "Er, yeah."

Without another word, Smokethorn turned away, limping out of the den.

A chill of apprehension fell over Kestrelpaw as the two of them left camp, heading towards the Thunderpath. He looked to Smokethorn once more, watching the old medicine cat's uneven gait.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked quietly. "Are you…are you sure I can do this?"

"Whether you can or not, you must," was the medicine cat's reply. "It's your duty. Your burden. If you cannot fulfill it, you cannot be my apprentice." _And you will be invisible once more. _He didn't have to say the last part aloud; they were both thinking it.

"But what if-" he began, only to be cut off as Smokethorn growled,

"What is the best herb to couple with cobwebs?"

Kestrelpaw blinked, a little taken aback, but the answer had already presented itself, soft against his tongue. "Marigold."

"And why do we use it?"

"To stave off infection, because cobwebs are usual dirty."

"What is the best cure for a rat bite?"

He frowned. "Er, I'm not sure. Wild garlic…?"

"You've got to be sure," Smokethorn said, but he nodded. "And another treatment for rat bites is…?"

This time Kestrelpaw did not know, and he winced as Smokethorn barked, "Burdock root."

And so it continued for several hours; Smokethorn shot questions at him, and Kestrelpaw answered them as quickly as he could. Sometimes he got them wrong, and Smokethorn would shake his head with disgust, but still tell him the answer. And gradually those questions would pop up again in the barrage, until he was able to answer every one that the old medicine cat threw at him with confidence.

He knew it was only a distraction, something to take his mind off of his aching leg, but he was grateful for it.

He almost didn't realize they were near the Thunderpath until it was too late; he took a step forward to find sticky tar underneath his paws, instead of grass, and backpedaled just as a monster rushed past them, sending a gust of warm air rushing over their pelts. Kestrelpaw wrinkled his nose, but Smokethorn seemed oblivious to the stench.

"We're going to need a big space of time to cross," he said, watching the monsters flash past on frenzied paws. "Neither of us are very quick."

The pause had brought Kestrelpaw's mind back to his twisted leg, and he winced as he felt it throb. He looked over the Thunderpath, feeling a tremor of fear; it seemed impossibly wide, like a coursing river.

They waited for several minutes as monsters ran to and fro, until finally there was a lull.

"Now!" Smokethorn grunted, hobbling forwards. Kestrelpaw followed him, pausing again at the unfamiliar sensation against his pads. It was alien, and he wanted to turn back, but Smokethorn was already several tail-lengths ahead of him, and he knew that if he turned tail and fled back to the safety of the grass, he would never again try to make the attempt. He forced himself to take another step despite the frenzied beating of his heart, and another, and another, until he was a little more than halfway across.

The pain in his twisted leg seemed to grow with every breath, and he finally stopped, flanks heaving. The tarry surface burned his paws, but he couldn't make himself take another step.

Smokethorn finally looked back, and his amber eyes widened in alarm as he saw how much distance Kestrelpaw still had to close.

"Get over here!" he ordered, but Kestrelpaw could not move no matter how much he tried. His body groaned with exhaustion, a heartbeat of pain thrumming insistently in his leg.

His paws began to vibrate, and at first he was confused; only when he turned his head to see the quickly-approaching monster did he realize what a dangerous position he was in.

"Kestrelpaw!" Smokethorn hissed, but the tabby tom was still rooted to the ground. His eyes grew wide as the monster rushed towards his face, and he braced himself, thinking that perhaps it would not be too bad to escape his damaged body and be amongst the stars-

-and then there was a great weight crashing against his side, and his face was smashed against the Thunderpath as a wave of heat and sound rushed over them. For a moment, all was still, until strong jaws wrapped around his scruff and pulled him upwards.

"Let's go," Smokethorn hissed, and Kestrelpaw realized that the gray tom had limped back to knock him to the side; the monster had gone right over them.

Kestrelpaw somehow managed to stagger over to the other side of the Thunderpath before collapsing, his blood pounding in his ears and his heart beating faster than a fleeing rabbit's. For a few minutes, all he could do was pant and go over what had just happened in his mind: the roar of the monster, the icy fear that had seized him, the jolt of Smokethorn knocking him to the side, the image of the old medicine cat crouched over his apprentice like a queen over her kit.

"Thank you," he whispered finally, but the gray tom barely seemed to notice. His own flanks were heaving, and a thick wheeze was forcing itself from his throat. Kestrelpaw watched him, his concern for himself ebbing away, replaced by fear for the old cat. Smokethorn had been around as long as anyone could remember, and so had his hitched breath.

Smokethorn gradually caught up to his lungs, and silently flicked his tail, heading towards the ridge of rock that stood in the distance before them. Kestrelpaw said not a work as he followed, his ears flattened with unease.

_He saved me, _was all he could think. _Me, the cat that's worthless to the rest of the Clan. Me, the cripple. Me, the apprentice he didn't want in the first place._

He held off the words as long as he could, not wanting to intrude, but they finally bubbled out of him.

"Smokethorn," he began, but was cut off by a single glance from the elderly tom.

"Not a word," the medicine cat meowed. "I hardly did you a favor. It would have been kinder to let you die."

"Maybe, but I'm going to thank you anyways."

Smokethorn snorted, but said nothing further, as Mothermouth grew closer and closer.

The larger it grew, the more worried Kestrelpaw became. In his territory, he could feel comfortable. He knew the forest like the back of his (good) paw. He knew every rock, tree, and leaf on the ground. But out here, the sky seemed impossibly vast without trees to cloud it. Out here, the marshes whispered with a language all their own. Out here, he was impossibly tiny, smaller than the stars dotting the sky.

This was never what he had dreamed of. He had always wanted to be the big cat, the powerful warrior, the noble soldier. But that was not where fate had taken him, and he was no longer sure he had what it took to survive.

They limped up the jagged rocks together, panting almost in unison. Not a word was said as they entered the tunnels, as Smokethorn led them through the twists and turns until the light - so dazzling, so bright! - appeared before them.

There were already shapes - the other medicine cats - strewn around the rock, their flanks rising and falling evenly.

_They didn't bother to wait for us, _he thought. _But I guess I can understand why._

"Come here." Smokethorn's raspy voice guided him to the other side of the Moonstone. The two of them lied down, their bellies pressed against the icy stone, and Smokethorn reached out to touch it, his face going slack as he rested his muzzle on his paws. Kestrelpaw hesitated, before reaching out as well. The stone sent a chill through him, and he could feel himself slipping away before his muzzle even hit his paws.

_When he opened his eyes, he was only aware of one thing: the pain was gone. He looked down at his paw, eyes widening as he saw it was untwisted. His heart leaped, and before he knew what he was doing, he was running, charging through the clearing in this strange forest. Only when he reached the other side and stopped, not even short of breath, did he realize that Smokethorn was there, watching. Only, instead of his usual annoyance, there was only calm on his face. Kestrelpaw looked down to Smokethorn's injured leg, and saw that it too was whole again._

_"This is amazing," Kestrelpaw said, running towards him just for the feeling of the wind swiping over his fur again, making his eyes sting as it whipped past his face._

_"This is cruel," Smokethorn said, but he did not sound like he minded. "They're only giving us a taste of what had been. As soon as we wake, it will be taken from us again."_

_"Always so pessimistic," came a voice behind them, and Kestrelpaw's eyes widened as a bright shape made its way through the ferns. Smokethorn's head turned sharply as a soft brown she-cat appeared, her pelt glowing with starlight._

_"Featherpaw," Smokethorn whispered, surprise ringing in his voice. "You…what are you doing here?"_

_"I've been here for a long time," she said, her amber eyes soft with amusement. She padded towards him, reaching gently to touch his nose with hers, but he drew back, seeming mystified. Kestrelpaw looked between the two of them, puzzled, before glancing down at Smokethorn's leg, remembering the stump that was usually there._

Is she the she-cat he was wounded trying to save?

_"You never appeared to me," Smokethorn said. "Never. Not once, in all those moons I came here. Why the sudden appearance? Why now?"_

_Her ears flattened, and for a moment she almost seemed ashamed. "I know I should have, Smokepa-Smokethorn. Believe me, I know. But when I died, I was just so angry…at you, at everyone…I was jealous that you were able to survive, when I wasn't. So I avoided you and everyone else there for awhile…and then when I finally got over that, it was kind of too late to come back, you know? I was afraid that you would hate me too, for what happened…so I just stayed back, I guess, and the years slipped by. But, considering…well, you know. I figured that now was the right time to come back and thank you. You risked your life for me, and you were the one who ended up paying the price, and I was so ungrateful…thank you, Smokethorn. I know things haven't turned out like you hoped, and I'm sorry for that."_

_This time, when she reached out, the old medicine cat didn't draw back. Kestrelpaw thought he saw the ghost of a smile flit over the gray tom's face, but it was gone too quickly for him to be certain._

_Featherpaw turned her glowing amber eyes onto Kestrelpaw next. "Hello, Kestrelpaw. I know you've been training for several moons already, and you've learned a lot, right?"_

_"He's a good pupil," Smokethorn rumbled, and Kestrelpaw looked to the medicine cat with surprise, not having expected any praise. Smokethorn seemed as stoic as ever, but there was a faint gleam in his eyes that the apprentice suspected had everything to do with Featherpaw's presence. _

_"Thank you," Kestrelpaw said with a flick of his ear, a little embarrassed. Featherpaw laughed._

_"I just wanted to tell you that StarClan thinks you'll do fantastic," she purred to him. "You're compassionate and intelligent. You won't need Smokethorn hovering over your shoulder, which is good, since he won't be doing much of that."_

_Smokethorn's expression didn't change, but his ears lowered slightly, and he glanced up towards the sky. Kestrelpaw was puzzled, but didn't know what to say._

_"Thank you," he meowed again, scuffing his paw against the forest floor as he blushed underneath his tabby fur. "I'm trying my best, honestly. I'm sure there's plenty for me to learn yet, but…."_

_"Not much," Smokethorn said, "but some."_

_Featherpaw's eyes rested on the old tom for a moment, and Kestrelpaw thought something passed between them - not romantic, exactly, just some sort of understanding - before Featherpaw pasted on another smile._

_"The night's about over now," she said, "so I've got to be off. You'll wake up in a bit. Good luck getting home. I'll see you again, okay, Kestrelpaw? Next half-moon." She winked at him, before trotting into the forest._

_"So?" Kestrelpaw asked, once she had disappeared from sight. "What happened there?"_

_Smokethorn only shook his head, as the dream dissolved around them._

When Kestrelpaw opened his eyes again, it was almost pitch black. The moon had moved on, no longer giving the stone it's incredible shine, and the sun was not yet high enough in the sky to pierce the shadows of the cave.

He sat up with a groggy yawn, and heard Smokethorn let out a rattling cough beside him as the older tom stirred. He waited for the medicine cat to sit up, before rising to his paws. The two of them limped out of the entrance together, hearing the shuffling of other weary paws.

_Guess they can't leave us behind this time, _he thought with a faint smirk as they wove their way through the tunnels.

He blinked as they entered the sunlight, squinting despite the sun only barely cresting the horizon. He wanted to rub his eyes with one paw, but knew he couldn't rest all his leg on his twisted paw while he did so. He settled for blinking firmly a few times as his eyes adjusted to the light, before hearing a purr behind him.

"Hello," came a soft voice, and he turned to find two lean she-cats blinking at him. The older of the two smiled at him.

"Greetings, Kestrelpaw. Good to see you," she said. "My name is Heatherstripe. I'm the medicine cat of WindClan. This is my apprentice, Larkpaw." She nodded to the other cat, a silver tabby.

"Nice to meet you," Kestrelpaw said, glancing between the two of them.

"If you need anything in the future, feel free to come to us," Heatherstripe said. She and Smokethorn exchanged glances - similar to those he had shared with Featherpaw - before both WindClan she-cats gave them polite nods and continued down the rocky slope.

"What's up with that?" Kestrelpaw asked, watching them descend.

"Sometimes medicine apprentices turn to other medicine cats," Smokethorn said, flicking his tail as he began limping downwards. "It's rare, but it happens."

"What would make them do that?" Kestrelpaw asked. "Why couldn't I just ask you?"

Smokethorn ignored the question, pausing as the medicine cats from ShadowClan and RiverClan called his name as well. He nodded to them, but didn't say anything, and Kestrelpaw copied him, not wanting to be rude but not wanting to talk to them, either. His twisted paw was aching with renewed vigor, as if trying to make up for the time he'd spent asleep, and there was nothing that he wanted more than to sleep.

"We've just got to cross the Thunderpath, and then there's a barn where we can rest for a bit, if you're tired," the gray medicine cat rumbled. He didn't mention what had happened the last time they had attempted a crossing, for which Kestrelpaw was grateful, but anxiety crawled in his stomach as he imagined himself locking up again.

"Just keep moving," Smokethorn said as they paused on the edge of the tarry path. "One paw in front of the other. It sounds stupid, but that's all it takes. Don't focus on the crossing or the monster. Just worry about each paw step."

Kestrelpaw nodded, and the two of them began hobbling over the Thunderpath once more. Kestrelpaw stared downwards, focusing on his paws as his mentor had suggested, ignoring the sticky feeling of the path against his paws, watching his twisted paw pass over the dark ground. His breath became more labored as they neared the halfway point, but he kept going.

It was when they were almost across that he began to follow. His breath was ragged again, and his paw hurt more than he could ever remember it hurting before. A tremor ran through his legs, and he stopped, panting.

He looked up to find that Smokethorn was on the other side, watching him. His amber eyes were cool, and then he tilted his head. Kestrelpaw followed his gaze to see a monster quickly approaching, its lights glaring through the morning haze.

_I'm not coming to help you this time, _Smokethorn's eyes said. _You're on your own._ It was a test: pass or be splattered.

Kestrelpaw sucked in a sharp breath, before breaking into as much of a run as he could manage, swinging his twisted leg clumsily to the side as he loped the last tail-length. He tumbled to the ground just as the monster rushed past behind him, his nose pressed against the dirt, panting.

"Well done," Smokethorn said quietly. "It's important that you can do it on your own. I can't always be there, you know."

Kestrelpaw nodded; if Smokethorn had been half a tail-length away the first time, Kestrelpaw would have very easily been crushed. "I understand."

"Do you?" Smokethorn's voice was flat, and he looked away again. "This way, come on."

He led his apprentice to the barn, a bright red Twoleg nest; Kestrelpaw blinked up at it in awe for a long moment, before following the old tom inside.

"Hey!" came a bright voice as they entered. "Smokethorn, what's up?"

A young tabby bounced towards them, her blue eyes ago with excitement. Her grin widened as she saw Kestrelpaw. "Aw, this is the apprentice you go on about. Somethin'paw, right? Cute, but not as much of a kid as you were saying."

"My name's Kestrelpaw," he said, just as Smokethorn growled,

"I don't 'go on' about anything." Despite his rough tone, the tom's amber eyes were softer than normal as he blinked at the barn cat. "How are you, Daze?"

"Good!" she said with a head bob. "I already caught you some mice, Smokey. Just you, since I didn't know your apprentice would be tagging along. Smokey _always _stops by here when he's done dreaming with dead cats," she said to Kestrelpaw, her tone almost conspiratorial. "Gotta rest his old bones, y'know how it is."

Kestrelpaw's whiskers twitched. "I could use a rest myself, honestly."

"I bet!" Daze chirped. "It's hard work for you two, getting up here. Never fear, I'll catch a mouse for you too. They're underfoot almost all the time, so it's no biggie. I'll be back in a flick of a kit's tail!"

She bounced away, leaving Kestrelpaw faintly mystified by her energy.

"She seems nice," he said to Smokethorn, who grunted his assent.

"She's lived her for about a year now," he said, limping towards one corner of the barn, where there was a small clump of hay. Atop it rested a single plump mouse. Smokethorn settled down, grasping it between his forepaws. "She's a sweet thing. Enthusiastic. Always catches something for me when I stop by. Her memory for names is terrible, but her memory for this is oddly sharp."

"She likes you. I can't imagine why," Kestrelpaw said, his voice light and teasing. Smokethorn only flicked his ear at his apprentice, gnawing at the mouse. It seemed difficult, for most of his teeth were rotten or missing. Kestrelpaw watched him for a moment, before turning as he heard Daze returning. A mouse swung from her jaws as well, and she plopped it down at his feet with a grin.

"Enjoy," she purred, then yawned. "I'm going back to sleep, if it's all the same to you two. I'm not usually up this early."

Smokethorn nodded, and Daze disappeared behind a large bale of hay; after a few moments, they were able to hear her gentle snores.

Kestrelpaw dug into his mouse, scarfing half of it down in seconds. He paced himself for the second half, and when he finished he felt almost full to bursting.

"Think we can get her to catch a few more of these for us, to bring them home?" he asked, feeling a bit sleepy as he rested his head on his paws.

"If you want to carry them, be my guest," Smokethorn replied, before glancing at him. He stared into Kestrelpaw's eyes for a moment, as if scrutinizing him.

"She's right," he said finally. "You're not really a 'kid' any longer. You're what, nine moons now?"

"Ten," Kestrelpaw said with a twitch of his whiskers. Smokethorn seemed surprised.

"Ah. I tend to…lose track of time these days." There was a grudging note to his voice; the apprentice knew his mentor hated admitting any sort of weakness.

"It's fine. Sometimes I do the same thing…but what's this I hear about you talking about me, huh?"

Smokethorn rolled his eyes. "Daze is good at coaxing things out. I'm sure you'll learn that soon enough, since you'll be seeing each other every half-moon."

Kestrelpaw's ears pricked. "I'm coming with you every time?"

"It's your duty," Smokethorn answered. "Of course you have to come. I let you recover for long enough, I think, but today was your test, and you passed."

The young tom frowned, remembering Smokethorn's earlier quizzing. "What sort of test?"

"The test of how close you are to earning your full name," the medicine tom answered.

"And how did I do?"

The older tom paused for a moment, before the smallest of smiles twitched the edge of his muzzle. "Well. You're close to earning it, I think. Won't be long now; one more moon left, I'd say."

Kestrelpaw grinned, but the smile faltered as he remembered Gingerstar and her desire to nudge the old tom out of his position. "And what will happen to you then?"

"Don't worry about that. Just worry about yourself, for once. You should be proud to earn your name."

"Of course I am! I just…I don't want to replace you, or anything. Not after all you've done. And I don't just mean today, either, although you did definitely save my tail…I mean for everything. You gave me a purpose when I didn't have one. You trusted me enough to give me this position. And throughout everything, you guided me…a little harshly sometimes, I'll admit, but still. You're the best mentor I could have hoped for."

He gratified to see Smokethorn's amber eyes soften, if only for a moment.

"You've been a good apprentice," the older tom said simply. "You were the right choice. Despite your trials, your spirit is brighter than mine ever was. I drowned myself in guilt after I failed to save Featherpaw, but you managed to bounce back."

"What happened with her? If you don't mind me asking?" Kestrelpaw's voice was tentative. Smokethorn shifted his weight to make himself more comfortable, his injured leg splayed out.

"I loved her," he meowed, and Kestrelpaw's eyes widened. "We were out hunting together, stupidly in love, too wrapped up in each other to see the fox. One moment she was laughing, the next she was screaming as it grabbed her in her jaws and tore her apart." He closed his eyes. "I tried to help, but I failed. It grabbed me when it was done with her, and destroyed my paw before anyone came to help us. Featherpaw died, and I was powerless.

"It took another queen dying before I'd accept my fate as the medicine cat. That queen visited me once at the Moonstone, but Featherpaw never did. I thought she hated me because I couldn't save her, but…." He let out a quiet, relieved sigh. "It seems that was not the case."

"Do you think you could ever be with her? In StarClan, I mean?"

He shrugged. "The rules of StarClan are tenuous…but we've grown apart. She's not the apprentice I fell for, and I'm certainly not the tom she loved." He coughed, quietly at first, but gradually growing louder as his flanks heaved. Kestrelpaw rose to his feet, thinking there might be some herbs nearby to help, but Smokethorn motioned for him to sit down again.

"There's nothing you can do for it," he said once he had regained his breath. "I've tried everything, believe me. Just relax."

Kestrelpaw settled himself again, before saying, "Even if you aren't the tom you once were, I think you're worth knowing. I know some parts of you are…twisted, all tangled up, because of what happened…but other parts are still whole, I think. I mean, you saved me, even knowing what it might cost you. That took courage."

Smokethorn's whiskers twitched. "You're the one who threw yourself into the river for a she-cat, and gave up your dream for this. That's more courage than I could hope to display." He yawned, resting his head on his muzzle, seeming weary. "You should rest. You'll need your strength."

"So will you."

He didn't say anything to that, only closed his eyes. "Good night, Kestrelpaw."

It was the first time the old medicine cat had ever said anything of the sort to his apprentice, and inwardly he smiled at the strangeness of it, since the sun was rising, but he mewed, "Good night, Smokethorn," and closed his eyes, listening to the rattle of the tom's breath.

. . .

He awoke a few hours later, brimming with new energy from the mouse and his nap. His head rose from the hay slowly, and he glanced towards Smokethorn, but the gray tom's flanks were still rising and falling, albeit unevenly. He rose to his paws, careful not to wake the old medicine cat, before silently padding away to make dirt.

Before he reentered the barn, Daze intercepted him.

"Nice to see you awake, sleepyhead," she purred, twitching her tail against his muzzle. "Kestmalpaw, right?"

"Kestrelpaw," he corrected. "Good to see you too, I guess. Thank you for the mice."

She shrugged. "Like I said, no biggie. They're all over the place. How's ol' Smokey?"

"A little odd," he admitted. "He's been saying some weird things, and taking me to the Moonstone was sort of out of the blue…and I worry for him, I guess. He's older than any other cat I know, and his breathing isn't so good, but…you know. Just one of those things, I guess. He does seem a bit more…content, though. It's hard to explain. I mean, I know he doesn't _look _happy, but he saw one of his old friends in his dreams, and he said I was close to being a full medicine cat…and I don't know why he would be glad of that, but he seemed to be."

"You rattle on just like he does," Daze purred, her eyes glittering with amusement. "It's kinda cute."

Kestrelpaw blinked as an image of himself rose in his mind, aged like Smokethorn, his fur clumped an unkept, his eyes dull. He pictured himself in the medicine den, curled up in front of his herbs as his mentor often did, snapping at his own apprentice some day, and to his faint bemusement, he smiled.

_There's worse things than being like him, _he thought, his eyes drifting towards the barn. _Despite his flaws…he's a noble cat, I think._

"I'm going to wake him up, I guess," he said to Daze. "We should get back. I wouldn't put it past the apprentices for them to all have taken a dunking in the river, or something. The Clan needs us."

Daze nodded. "That's fine. Have fun on the way back, and tell him I said goodbye, will you? I'm going to find some moss for my nest. Hay can be awful tickly on your nose, y'know?"

Kestrelpaw nodded, before turning away, entering the cool barn.

He knew as soon as he did that something was off. It took him a moment to realize what it was: the barn was too quiet. It was near silent, save for the faintest rustles of mice in the hay, hidden from view. He frowned, taking a few steps and pausing again, wondering what was missing.

He realized the identity of the absent sound a split second before his eyes came to rest on Smokethorn's still form. The ever-present wheeze was gone, as if it had never existed at all.

"Smokethorn?" he whispered, taking a tentative step towards the gray tom. "Smokethorn? Are you awake?"

The tom did not move as he approached, and when Kestrelpaw drew nearer, he saw the tom's jaws were slightly parted. There was no rattle of breath, no twitch in the hay from an exhale, and a stone seemed to settle in Kestrelpaw's stomach.

"Smokethorn," he said, but this time it was not a question, only a plea. He reached out to touch the tom's flank, half-expecting him to raise his head and growl, but it was clear as soon as Kestrelpaw rested his pad against the gray tom's fur that the medicine cat was gone.

_He knew, _he thought, a sudden flood of sorrow rushing over him, threatening to knock him off his paws. _He knew it was coming. That's why he brought me…he knew if he didn't this time, he wouldn't have the opportunity. And Featherpaw knew, and Heatherstripe must have suspected…oh, StarClan._

He pressed his nose against his mentor's fur, dimly noting how it was already beginning to cool. Smokethorn's spirit, as turbulent as it had been, was no longer present to warm it. It felt almost as though it never had been.

_Daze. I've got to tell her, _he thought, and he forced himself to rise again. He turned towards the barn entrance, before pausing and looking back to Smokethorn.

_Thank you, _he thought to the old, stubborn, selfish, proud, maddening, noble medicine cat. _Thank you. For everything. I promise, we…_I _won't ever forget you._ _And I won't let _them, _either._

He closed his eyes, padding out of the barn. He stopped and tilted his head up to the sky, trying to find a single star despite the hazy warmth of the sun.

**AN: Larkpaw/wing is canon. Heatherstripe is not.**

**I debated on the barn for a bit, but decided it was probably around, even though Kestrelpaw/wing lived in ancient times. I mean, old barns are usually there before neighborhoods and stuff, which is what the Twolegs built when they drove off SkyClan.**

**Smokethorn's death was greatly influenced by the passing of my own dog, who died on August 1st. You'll always be a part of our family, Ellie.**

**There's actually going to be a third part to this, I think. Questions. Until then.**


	29. 28 Questions

**28. Questions**

"We aren't going to get him?"

The question burst out of his throat much louder than he had intended, but he was powerless to stop it; hot anger washed over him, flickering in his eyes like hot coals. Gingerstar seemed taken aback as well, but her voice was soft as she said,

"It isn't possible, Kestrelpaw. You know that. We can't send two or three warriors to get his body and bring it all the way back here. It would be dangerous, time-consuming…and unsanitary. Besides…do you really think he would want to be buried out there, in that forest? That forest is where he lost Featherpaw, and his own paw. The forest holds nothing but terrible memories for him. He died in the barn, right? That's where he made peace with himself, you said. Why wouldn't he want to be buried there?"

"For better or worse, this is his _home._" Kestrelpaw was embarrassed at the way his voice cracked with the last word, but he plunged onwards. "This is where he belongs. And you don't want to get him not because it's dangerous or time-consuming or whatever, it's because you want to forget him. He didn't fit that image of the perfect medicine cat: he wasn't kind, wasn't humble, wasn't gentle and caring. He was rough and harsh and crude, but he was a better cat than you could ever hope to be. And I won't let you erase him from this Clan's memory, not as long as I draw breath!"

He realized that he was baring his fangs at his leader, and in the back of his mind he felt a tremor of fear, but he pushed it away.

_I don't fit that perfect image either. No cat can, not really. The Clan demanded Smokethorn's entire life, and for what? To be buried in an old barn, to be forgotten?_

_I can't let that happen._

The gentleness in Gingerstar's eyes had vanished, replaced by crackling anger at his insubordination.

"It seems to me that in the past few moons, you've become a little too secure in your own power," she said, her voice growing icy. "Medicine cats are powerful, that's true, but do not forget which one of us has nine lives."

"And you shouldn't forget which one of us has the power to take them away," Kestrelpaw hissed. He turned away before she could answer, exiting the den.

He felt the Clan's eyes on him as he brushed past the curtain over the den, but he did not look at them. He had probably looked like quite a sight, staggering into the camp with urgency in his eyes, minus one gray tom.

_If they want their news, they can get it from her, _he thought, padding into his own den. _When was the last time any of them asked me for anything besides herbs and cobwebs?_

He started towards his nest, only to pause as he saw Smokethorn's. Half of it was practically covering their supply of burdock root; Smokethorn had always been protective of their herbs. He almost smiled at the memory.

He reached out with one paw, gently tugging the nest away from the herbs. He paused, then glanced around the den, noticing the signs of Smokethorn's presence – a few gray hairs there, the herbs in carefully-constructed piles due to his slight obsessive tendencies, the remains of a mouse – and suddenly felt overwhelmed. How could he brush these out of the den, taking out Smokethorn's presence as if he had never been there at all?

_Later, _he said with a weary sigh. _I can figure this all out later, I'm certain of it…I just need to rest. I've been up for hours now, and…I just really need to rest._

He flopped onto his nest, giving Smokethorn's one last look before curling up into a tight ball, trying to banish the images of the gray tom's body and Daze's heartbroken expression when he had told her the news from his mind.

. . .

He awoke several hours later, after a yowl pierced his dreams. It took him several minutes to affirm that the yowl had indeed been real, that it was Gingerstar's voice who had called out.

He uncurled, feeling puzzled and fuzzy-minded.

"What do you think—" he started, only to break off as he looked to Smokethorn's nest and found it empty. The earlier events flooded him again, and he felt a second stone settle in his gut, next to the first.

He padded out of the den, eyes narrowing as he saw Gingerstar standing atop the Highrock, preparing to address the Clan. His Clanmates hovered in the center of camp, their eyes wide and anxious. Even the kits had tottered out, their mothers inattentive as they waited to see what had happened to their medicine cat, one of their pillars, one of their constants. Smokethorn had been around as long as anyone could remember; without him, there was a jagged hole in the Clan, one that he knew Gingerstar would want to brush over as quickly as she could, to slap a patch on it even if that did not fix it.

"ThunderClan," she said, her voice carrying that same soft, gentle, _false _tone that it had when she had first spoken to Kestrelpaw, "today is a day of mourning. As I am sure some of you have already heard, Smokethorn will not be returning to us. He passed away this morning, in his sleep."

There were a few gasps, and anxious murmurs raced through the Clan. Kestrelpaw's eyes flicked over their faces, taking in the shock and confusion, and felt slightly vindicated as he saw traces of grief.

"W-was he at the Moonstone?" one cat stammered. "Is it an omen?"

Kestrelpaw's tail bristled. _An omen for the Clan? Is that all they care about?_

"Kestrelpaw has informed me that Smokethorn died in the barn near the Thunderpath," Gingerstar said, her cool green eyes darting down to him. "It was after they shared dreams with our warrior ancestors. I assure you, it was a peaceful death." Her voice had risen in volume, emanating strength. "I am sure Smokethorn would have preferred to go in such a peaceful place, away from the troubles of the forest. And we have decided that it is there he will remain."

"He's not going to be buried here?"

Kestrelpaw was surprised to see that it was Emberpaw who spoke out. He hadn't seen the tortoiseshell she-cat since he had rescued her, sacrificing his future as a warrior in the process. She had never spoken of Smokethorn with any fondness that he could remember.

"No," Gingerstar answered. "It's too dangerous to send our warriors to retrieve him, and I am certain that he would prefer to remain there. I have been to the barn several times myself, and it is a peaceful place, one of plenty. It is where he would want to be."

"What of his vigil? How can we hold one without a body?" another cat asked.

"We will not have one," Gingerstar said. "It is unfortunate, but you're right; without a body, we cannot share tongues with him a final time, and I'm certain he is already with our ancestors. We know there is a battle likely approaching with RiverClan; he would not want our warriors to be tired. I know he wouldn't want to cause more trouble for his apprentice."

The Clan visibly relaxed, and what little grief Kestrelpaw had seen vanished. He realized that it hadn't been true grief at all; rather, it had been _guilt_, guilt for not bidding the medicine cat farewell, for bringing him back. But Gingerstar had relieved them of that, and now only their selfishness remained.

Before Kestrelpaw knew what he was doing, he was on his paws, hot anger licking through his veins.

"You don't know anything about what he would have wanted!" he snarled. Gingerstar froze as he spoke, her eyes flicking down to him, anger crackling in her gaze.

"Kestrelpaw, we understand that you are overcome with grief—"

"And I'm the only one!" he hissed. "Look at you all. You call yourselves warriors? Warriors are supposed to care for their Clanmates. They're supposed to protect them from harm, support them while they are weak, and mourn them when they are gone. But you all only want to forget! You want to put Smokethorn behind you, because he was an embarrassment, an affront to everything you hold dear. He was crippled: that made him weak, didn't it? ThunderClan was ashamed of him, ashamed to admit that our apprentices were fallible. He lost his paw trying to defend a Clanmate, but because he failed, he was suddenly less than a cat.

"And you all shunned him. You turned your backs on him, acted as though he was nothing more than dirt. Is it any wonder he became withdrawn, hostile, even vengeful?" He was quivering with fury, and he raked his gaze over the gathered cats.

"When was the last time you spoke to him, Swiftfoot?" he asked, his gaze piercing the young tom. The warrior blinked, his ears flattening, and he scuffed his paw against the ground.

"He helped your mother kit. When you caught a cold at two moons old, it was he who kept you alive. When you got that scar over your nose that became infected, it was he who cured it. When you had that thorn in your paw, it was he who got it out. Did you ever thank him? Did you ever say anything to him without demanding something in return?"

The warrior didn't answer, but Kestrelpaw didn't care. He moved on to the next cat, an older queen.

"What about you, Spottedbird? You've had three litters, and he helped you kit every time. This last kitting was the hardest, wasn't it? You nearly died, but he saved you _and _every one of your kits, against the odds. Is there another medicine cat in the forest that could have done that? And what did you do for him in return?

"And you, Emberpaw?" He ignored the painful pang in his heart as he met the apprentice's green eyes. "When you fell into the river, who was it that kept you from catching a chill? Who was it that kept you healthy? Did you ever offer him a word of thanks? Did you ever visit him again?"

"Kestrelpaw—" Gingerstar began again, trying to cut him off, but he turned his furious eyes to her.

"And you? How many times did he save one of your precious nine lives? How many times did he save the _leader of our Clan _without a word of thanks? How many omens did he give to you, how many times did he withstand the pain – pain you can't even begin to imagine – of walking all the way up to Mothermouth to dream of the Clan's future? How many Gatherings did he attend, despite his distaste for them and the effort it took for him to drag himself to them? How many times did he give you advice, even though you were constantly trying to push him into retirement, to shove him into the elders den? Out of sight, out of mind, right? Out of sight, out of worry, out of trouble, out of _existence. _In the end, he even handled that problem for you. Wasn't it considerate of him, to die at the barn so you never even had to set eyes on the body? You don't even have to give him a grave now. That would be a constant reminder, wouldn't it, a silent testament to the cat he had been? But now there doesn't have to be any trace of him. Now he can fade away as though he never existed, just the way you wanted."

He shook his head, disgust twisting his face. "There's nothing I can do about that. There's nothing I can do about any of this, because some day the same will happen to me. I'm an embarrassment too, with my paw. I'm just another cat forced into a job that doesn't fit. But you don't care, none of you _care. _You're content just to use me and Smokethorn and any other cat that ever falls short of your expectations, to wring us out until we're nothing more than husks, and then just throw us away. That will probably never change, not while cats like you are leaders. I can't change the way this Clan is run. And after today, I won't protest. I'm just one voice, after all. On my own, I'm powerless. I'm not going to be like Smokethorn; I'll do my job, and I'll do it without resentment. But today, I am leaving. Today, I am going to the barn. Today, I am going to bury my mentor and my friend. Today, I'm going to honor the tom that died twice. And you," he paused, eyes boring into his leader, "can go to the Dark Forest, for all that I care."

The Clan was completely silent as he turned his back on the ginger she-cat and began limping towards the camp entrance. The only sound he could hear was his heartbeat thudding in his ears as the last of his anger faded away, replaced by empty numbness. For once, his paw didn't hurt – or, if it did, it was lost in the swirling maelstrom inside of him.

And then,

"Wait."

He knew whose voice it was without even turning around.

"I'm coming," Emberpaw said, and he felt her tail barely touch his. "I'll say goodbye to Smokethorn. And I will help keep his memory alive."

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. First, Swiftfoot rose, then Spottedbird, then the deputy, Redstripe. And with him rose the rest of the Clan, until they were all standing, every last one of them save for the kits, and they were all watching Kestrelpaw. Wordlessly, he turned away, exiting camp.

Behind him was the rumble of dozens of paws moving together as the Clan followed, leaving Gingerstar in her empty shell of a camp, save for the kits mewling for their mothers.

. . .

Daze was waiting outside of the barn as they approached. Kestrelpaw almost smiled as he saw her; her eyes were as wide as the moon as she saw the cats walking towards her humble barn.

Kestrelpaw held his tail up as they neared, signaling for them to stop. He looked again to Emberpaw, but said nothing as he and Daze walked into the barn.

The body was exactly as they had left it; Kestrelpaw shuddered to think what would have happened if he had not returned, if young Daze had been left with the corpse.

"We have to prepare him for his vigil," the medicine apprentice said.

"Tell me what to do."

They began grooming him, tongues untangling every knot, whisking away every speck of dirt, until Smokethorn looked far tidier than he ever had in life. Kestrelpaw moved him so that his muzzle was resting on his paws, so that it seemed he was merely asleep, not a million miles away. Then, the medicine apprentice slipped out of the back entrance of the barn, scouting for any sweet-smelling herb he could find. He returned with a bundle of them in his jaws, and arranged them around Smokethorn as carefully as he could, allowing them to fill the air with their rich, soothing aromas.

And then, they allowed the others in.

It was only a trickle at first, the bravest cats coming forward to murmur a few words to the medicine cat – thank-yous, perhaps, or apologies – before touching his shoulder and moving on. And then, gradually, it grew as more and more cats stepped up to say their goodbyes. A few – the older cats – stayed a bit longer than just a few words, but eventually they too moved on to sit with the others, until the barn contained nearly all of ThunderClan. Kestrelpaw watched, a silent sentinel, until every cat had their moment. And then he stepped forward.

"I'm not really one for speeches," he said, "but this isn't about me. It's about Smokethorn, who died here, alone, believing that he had been unwanted and uncared for by the Clan. And he was right. But I hope that he can see what has happened today from the stars, because…it's surprised me. And maybe it's only a temporary shift, maybe tomorrow I'll go back to being invisible and he'll be nothing but a fading memory in the minds of ThunderClan's kits, but I hope that won't be the case. Because he was a cat worth remembering. Every cat in ThunderClan is, whether they're old or young, whole or broken, warrior or medicine cat or queen or elder or apprentice or kit. Every cat is worth something. I can't claim to speak for him, but I can speak for myself: this is what I want to see in our Clan. This is how it should be.

"I'll never forget him, or the things he did for me, or everything that he taught me. And I'll never forget that the last thing he did was wish me strength, strength for the responsibilities and sorrows I'll have to shoulder in the coming moons. If you're listening, Smokethorn, then please know that I'm ready. And know that both the Clan and myself are better off for having known you."

He bowed his head then, and the others did as well, sending a final prayer to the stars.

When he looked up again, he found Emberpaw standing before him with a small, sad smile.

"You didn't ask for any thanks for yourself," she said.

"Today's not about me."

"Well, I'm not going to wait until you die," she answered, and reached up – up, for somehow in the past few moons while he had been training, he had grown into an adult, hadn't he? – to touch his nose. "Thank you, Kestrelpaw. I won't forget him, and I won't forget you, either."

His throat felt thick, and all he could do was nod. She smiled again, and then the two of them turned as Redstripe spoke.

"It will be nightfall by the time we return to camp," he rumbled, "and it would not be safe to walk to camp in the dark. You all should leave now. Sit vigil in camp, if you wish; Gingerstar will not object." He looked to Kestrelpaw. "I will stay."

Obediently, the Clan ebbed away – Emberpaw touched her tail to Kestrelpaw's again before leaving – and the barn was nearly empty once more. For once, Daze was quiet, seeming a bit overwhelmed with the past events; Redstripe and Kestrelpaw moved away to allow for her to have her own goodbyes with the older tom.

They went outside, and began to dig, underneath of a young sapling that grew near the barn.

By the time they finished, the sun was dipping down towards the horizon, and the sky had darkened to a smoky purple. They returned to the barn to find Daze waiting for them, her eyes glistening with sorrow.

"In the Clan, we stay with the dead for an entire night, before burying them," Kestrelpaw explained quietly, sitting down next to her.

"I know," she murmured. "He told me, once, after he lost a patient. He told me about the customs sometimes…where I'm from, we stay up too, to honor the fallen's spirit. We stay awake to assure the spirit it's being watched, so it can find its way to the afterlife without fear of getting lost."

Kestrelpaw smiled to himself. "Smokethorn would probably insist that the watcher was wrong, if he messed up getting back."

Daze's whiskers twitched. "Yeah."

They didn't say anything after that, as the moon rose into the sky and the stars scattered themselves over the heavens. There was no need; their hearts were all heavy with the day's same pain.

But, Kestrelpaw reflected, in the pain there was a tiny seed of hope, the hope for change. He didn't know what had shifted in the Clan that day, and there was no telling if it would last beyond these precious few hours. But it could, and that possibility might even be worth it, in the end. And even if it didn't linger, he felt certain that it would resurface, with some other cat. Today had been the end of more than just Smokethorn's story. It had been the beginning of the end for a pattern of thought, a way of looking at one's Clanmates, a way of evaluating one cat's worth compared to another's. And at his core, he felt certain of one thing.

It wasn't a question of whether things would change. It was _when. _

**AN: Redstripe is obviously Redstar, the leader from Firestar's Quest. He didn't have a canon warrior name, to my knowledge.**

**And that's the close of Kestrelpaw's tale, at least for now. I hope you enjoyed it; it's nothing the sort of thing I usually do, a story told in one-shots, but experimentation is what this challenge is for.**


	30. 29 Wishing

**AN: This is another rp-related one-shot, even though these dudes were dead before rp began. c: **

**29. Wishing**

_Is it so wrong, _he wonders as he stares up at the sky, _to want something of your own? It want to have a dream, an aspiration, a secret desire, something that you keep close to your heart, something that you want to see grow and prosper and live?_

It isn't wrong for most cats. He knows that. But it is wrong for him, or anyone else of his bloodline. That was what his father had always told him. He was born to serve, to have no such desires, and even if he did have them, they would have to be placed after his Master. His Master is supposed to be everything, his entire world taking the form of a young, scared tom.

And yet, there are nights like tonight – rare and treasured – when the lights of Twolegplace don't quite eclipse the stars, and he can take a moment to look up at that inky, light-studded sky, and see just how small he is, how small they _all _are.

Some say the stars are the spirits of the dead gazing upon the living, and on Sky Nights, he knows this to be true.

But even on the clearest of nights, there are only those few moments that he is able to snatch and ponder, before his Master re-enters his world, as he is doing now. The young, timid tom almost tip-toes into their little home, his ears pinned against his head and his eyes gloomy.

"Well?" the servant asks, as his Master comes to stand beside him, and the youthful cat's shoulders trembled.

"They laughed," he said, his voice low and ashamed. "They laughed at me. They laughed, Sentinel."

"I told you that it would be wise to have me along, but you did not listen."

His Master closed his eyes. "I know. But Father said it would be best for me to try and stand on my own, not to bring anyone else along so that I seemed confident…."

"He meant other cats," the servant explained.

Confusion flitted over the ginger tom's face. "Aren't you….?"

"Not in the eyes of the city."

His Master doesn't know what to say to that, and Sentinel smiles "It's not something you need to worry about. All you need to know is that I am but a tool to be used by you at your disposal. That includes accompanying you when you wish to meet with others."

His Master sighs, giving a weak shake of his head, before curling up alongside his servant, resting his body against Sentinel's white fur.

"Do you have to be a tool?" he asks. "Can't you just be a cat, if I say you are?"

And there it is, that tiny offer, an olive branch thrown at his paws. And he tilts his head upwards so that the bright sparks in the sky are mirrored in his golden eyes, and thinks of his wish and smiles.

"No," he said, and with that exhale his wish is stuffed out, its dying embers floating up towards the clouds. "I was born to serve, not to be a cat of my own. You could order me to try, but I would fail. Now." He frowns, turning away from the beacons of light, looking back down towards the young tom lying beside him. "They laughed?"

The tom ducks his head. "They did. I offered them an alliance, and they laughed in my face. They said I was too young, too afraid, too weak to be a worthy ally. They called me names and insulted my father, too…but I think that if they weren't scared of him, they would have tried to kill me then and there."

"They laughed because you allowed them to," the servant rumbles. "That is what you must correct."

"But how? I don't want to be feared…I want to be loved." His voice is small, and timid, and he clearly thinks that what he says is foolish, but the servant is the one cat who will not judge him.

"Love is born from fear," Sentinel says, and his thoughts drift back to his father, to that smoky pelt and those flame-bright eyes. "Force them to fear you first. Break them. Then, when they have nothing else left, build them back up. They will find that they love you."

His Master blinks, and then gives the smallest of nods. "Okay. Teach me, then, Sentinel."

The white tom's yellow eyes are cool as he asks, "Is that an order?"

And the young tom raises his head, steely determination flashing for an instant in his own eyes. "Teach me…my tool."

. . .

The air is thick with blood as Sentinel plods forwards. There is only one cat standing now, and she will not be standing for long. Crimson stains one flank, and her eyes are glazed, but she remains defiant, like a star burning more fiercely than ever before moments before being distinguished. He smiles to himself again, although he takes no pleasure in the task, for he can see the value in such a spirit, and when his paw does strike her down, it is careful not to snuff out her light.

"Do you concede?"

The voice comes from behind him, and it is not directed at him. It is a familiar voice, one that he knows better than even his own, although it has changed much the last few moons. He tilts his head as he waits for the answers of the fallens.

And then, it comes, in a weary exhale and a dip of a head. Just like that, his Master has won the night.

Sentinel turns back to the ginger tom, and for a moment he sees a young, timid tom before him again. But that tom is gone now; the flickering embers have become a mighty flame, born from moons of training and hard work. That softness that had been there before is gone, burned away out of necessity.

"Sentinel, you can carry them back to our base," his Master orders, and Sentinel dips his head, turning back to the still bodies. A few of them won't pull through, but it's not a large loss. Enough of them will survive, and they will be the beginning of his Master's empire. That was how things were supposed to be.

He bends down to grasp the first still cat, when his Master stops him with a flick of his tail. The ginger tom pads forwards, and with surprising speed, rakes his claws down the length of the fallen tom's stomach. Blood coats the dusty earth, and the tom only thrashes a few times before going still.

His Master is still as he sees that he has actually done it – he has actually killed this tom, this stranger in the dirt – and for a moment Sentinel again sees his younger self, so naïve and timid.

'_I want to be loved,' _he recalls, and for a moment he has the briefest instance of uncertainty. Is it right, what he has done to his Master? Was it right to take away that gleam of hope, and replace it with this ruthlessness?

Once more he thinks of his wish, that old desire for freedom that he once kept so close to his heart, and that moment when it was offered to him with barely a thought.

His Master turns away then, dismissing him to his duties as he has many a time now. The dead tom is rigid, his eyes still staring sightlessly ahead, but neither of them pay him any mind Sentinel moves on, as he always does, and bends down to pick up another one of the beaten cats.

_They surely regret their decision now, _he thinks to himself, as he begins carrying the first back to their base. _This is just the first step, the first of many. By the time we are through here, everyone will know my Master's name, just as it should be. And I will remain in the shadows, just as we always must. And that is how it always must be._

. . .

By the time his task is finished, and all the cats had been brought back – save for the dead tom, whose body would become part of the city, as all things must – night has fallen. It is a clear night, with nary a cloud in the sky. The stars twinkle above them, shining their harsh light over the twisted streets and slick alleys, like watchful eyes.

He stares up at them, listening as his Master looks over the injured cats they had brought back, making sure they are all placed to his liking. He smiles to himself, as he watches the shift of the stars – for they were always shifting, although most cats did not realize it, dancing to this side and that as they fought to breathe in the inky blanket – and again he thinks of a night much like this one, when everything had changed. His ear swivels as he hears his Master approach him, and the ginger tom tilts his head back to join him in the watching.

"They're not laughing now," his Master says, and for an instant his eyes flick up to his servant's.

"And they won't again," he agrees, and his Master smiles. There is confidence in his face, a gleam to his eyes like a growing spark, a certain air with which he holds himself, and Sentinel's fears are put to rest.

_This is the way it's supposed to be, _he thinks, his father's words echoing in his mind. _It is not my place to question. It is not my place to wonder. It is not even my place to observe. It is only my place to do, to act, to be led by my Master's desires, and to ensure that his kingdom is crafted the way his lineage demands._

And he exhales again, as he had before, and the last cinders of that desire for freedom are swept out with his breath. This is his fate, this is how he should be, and he welcomes it.

His Master is the only wish he needs, and one that he will die for.


	31. 30 Crackling

**30. Crackling**

He is a self-made cat, as he is fond of saying. He started out with nothing: no territory; no prestige; no help.

However, this is not exactly true, for almost as far back as he could once remember, he always had _her. _

They - for this is how he thought of it, not as an alliance, not as a partnership, simply the two of them together, tied by Fate's bright ribbon - began when he was quite young, just a kit, really nothing more than a scrap of fur. He was small for his age, minuscule in the eyes of the city, and yet he burned with tremendous ambition.

This ambition got him into trouble. Namely, trouble in the form of two great, big, ugly toms. They cornered him in an alley, ready to do something horrid - pluck out his eyes, scar his tender young face, rip his tail off - but they had not accounted for _her. _

She seemed to appear almost out of nowhere, a puff of fur with a tremendous voice. She charged at them, and they were surprised enough to back off, if only for a minute. It was the minute he needed to craft a plan, albeit a simple one. Just as the two toms had regained their bearings and realized that she, the interloper, was no more than a kit herself, he was able to scoop up the nearby shards of glass from a broken bottle, and throw them into the air. The sun glinted off of each piece harshly, and one could almost take it for the dance of flames. The toms jumped back, startled by the glow, and the two kits took off without ever looking back.

He was young then, too young to know that she-cats could not hold onto power for long, that they didn't have the minds for it. To him, she seemed impossibly strong and brave, for though she was only a moon older than he, she was at least twice his size, and built for power. Timidly - for even with his ambition, he was shy back then - he asked her for her name, and in her rough voice - a voice that was rough even for a kit, and only grew harsher as she grew older, a voice that would forever remind him of sunlight on glass - she told him her name was Ember, but she preferred Burr. It seemed perfect to him, for her dull gray pelt was splashed with bright sparks of ginger, like embers waiting to be kindled. The only thing he thought was strange about her was the color of her eyes, for it seemed almost eerie to see green burn so brightly.

She asked him his name, and he chose it without thinking: Castion, the name of a legendary tom who had once prowled the streets helping those in need, or so it was said. He had always thought it to be a silly story, but the name held power within every syllable, and he would take what advantages he could get.

And so they fell into place, Castion and Burr, two of the most glory-starved cats the city would ever see. In the beginning, he had been more than willing to give her the reins, to let her make the decisions, for he was still in awe of her, still finding it difficult to believe that such a great, mighty creature like her would consent to working with a weakling like him, but it quickly became apparent who was the more fitting leader. He had a quick mind, for all his small size, and large paws that promised his own strength, down the road. Burr was many things, but clever was not one of them, and yet the two of them still flowed together perfectly. He was like kerosene, golden, smooth, and slick; she was like the spark that lit him, causing him to blaze up far more fiercely than he ever could on his own. The two of them set the city on fire, or so he liked to think. They were unstoppable, indomitable, so long as they had one another.

There was no need for words between them, no signals. Were it not for their differing appearances, Castion might have almost thought they were littermates, for no matter what they undertook - a battle for territory, an interrogation, a rallying of support - she was always right beside him, moving in sync. She saved his life on more than one occasion, and he hers; it was as though they had a connection to one another - a fetter, a shackle, a bond - that linked them in a way he had never before felt.

Of course, having a female partner was unheard of. Not only that, but Burr was clearly unfit to rule. There was a brutality to her, a dull thuggishness that often flared up when she her temper was roused; she rejoiced in punishment, delighted in slaughter. Her temperament seemed predisposed to simmering, and there were often flare-ups during which only Castion could quiet her. Such behavior was unbecoming of a leader, and thus over time she sank down to his loyal second-in-command. She did not mind - this position still made her one of the most powerful cats in the city, as they two of them worked their way up through the ranks of the street - but the rift between them became more apparent with every meeting Castion undertook, every exchange with the other leaders in Twolegplace. Nevertheless, she was steadfastly loyal to him, and he to her, for they knew that without the other, they would crumble.

Gradually, they grew up. And as they did, things began to change.

It was subtle at first; she would catch his eye after a long discussion with the other bosses in the city, right when he was at his most exasperated, and immediately energy would fill him again. Their pelts would brush as they prowled the streets, and it was as though an electric current had passed though him. He would catch her scent while on the edge of sleeping, and feel crackling warmth run over his pelt.

But over time, things grew more serious, and more troublesome. She was always on his mind, even when she was out on a mission, nowhere to be seen. She haunted his thoughts, his dreams. He _burned _for her in a way that was impossible to express. He knew she felt the same; that was not the problem. Or, rather, it _was_, because the growing fire that appeared whenever they were together threatened to consume them both. He had plans for the city, big plans, but they did not fit with what Burr was invoking for him. And as the feelings grew, so did his own streak of brutality. Before he had always been able to suppress it, but as his feelings - his _addiction_ - grew, his ability to hold it in check began to fade. He too delighted in the kill - he always had - but before he had known when was the time to hold back, and when was the time to strike. With Burr, he found himself wanting to paint the town red and grapple with the consequences later, but of course it could not be done. He had a course to steer, a path to manage, and it was growing more and more obvious that Burr was becoming an obstacle, rather than a boon.

But he could not let her go, and she would not relinquish him. Their courtship - for that was what they had become, there was no doubting that - grew ever more frenzied, more bloody. They burned the candles on both ends without a care. They lost themselves in one another, taking in only the heat of the moment, the sheer _pleasure _of it all, and slowly Castion's plans began to fade.

And then, she appeared.

She was nothing special, really not on the surface. A slender body, soft fur, a pretty pair of green eyes. She wouldn't have cared for him much if he had been another straggling roamer, but he had power and charisma, and she bought into it heart and soul. Little Portia, although he called her Pea, opened up an entirely new set of possibilities.

His legacy was one of the things he had been most concerned about, on his way to the top. Who would take up after him once he had gone? Who would carry on the work he had begun, the reputation he had gathered? He needed an heir, that much was obvious, and the _how _of it was a question that had plagued him for some time.

Portia - not Burr - provided the answer. Portia - not Burr - was gentle. Portia - not Burr - was smart. Portia - not Burr - had the ability to mother kits. And it was Portia - not Burr - that Castion decided would be his mate. There was no spark with her. She did not complete him. She did not fill his every waking moment. But she did not bring out his monstrous half, she did not consume him, she did not make his thoughts so muddled and entangled, and in the end he chose practicality over pleasure.

She took it better than he had anticipated, for despite all of her immense power, she was, at her core, a simple creature of simple pleasures. So long as she was allowed to serve him still, it was enough. She did not protest when he gradually began pushing her out of his inner circle, when he sent her on missions that kept her far away for long periods of time, when gradually her name faded from the history that he let the city remember. She had gotten her fill of that. And she offered no objection, when slowly - painfully slowly - "they" stopped existing at all.

He had to repair his image from the entire affair, of course, but with a clear head, it was not a difficult task. He pushed their heady, blood-splattered acts onto the shoulders of other cats, discarding his own blame. With Portia at his side, he rewrote the city's history, until it was impossible to even think of the name of the she-cat that had stood beside Castion for so long.

For a time, he contented himself with his cemented power, his luxury, the kits that would soon grow in Portia's belly and become his heirs. His thoughts of Burr still burned like stars in the back of his mind, but he learned to cloak them in shadows, to distract himself from them with other matters. She almost stopped being a part of him entirely - something he would have thought impossible before, as close as they had been then - until the stranger entered their midst, and proposed an idea, deadly in its simplicity.

A leader, and his follower. A boss, and his second in command. A Master, and his servant.

Castion's thoughts again turned to his unborn heirs. Who would protect them, when they went off to craft their own legacies, or build on what he had created? Who would be by their side, as Burr had been by his?

A she-cat was all the stranger asked for, just someone to bear the kits. The mother would not raise them, would not even see them again after the third moon. It was only her body the stranger wanted, her position as a vessel, and in return he would promise a willing, able-bodied servant for as many heirs as Castion cared to name.

And, most importantly of all, the servant would be male.

Castion agreed. Of course he had, for he possessed the one she-cat perfect for the task, one willing to do whatever he asked, one with the size and strength needed for the breeding. He sent for her in secret, brought her back from the shadows he had plunged her into, and before he had even completely outlined his request, she agreed. The stranger came for her, took her away, and that was the last time Castion ever saw his other half. That was the last time his eyes caressed her splashed fur, her green flames. She disappeared entirely, like a candle that had been snuffed out, and "their" story ended.

This isn't the history he has ever told. This isn't the legacy he will leave behind. He has forced himself to forget almost all of it, to relinquish the idea of what could have been his, to let go of the life that had once been possible - one filled with dangerous, glorious, crackling passion. There is but one reminder of his past that still lingers in his mind: a heavyset gray tom, with eyes like yellow fire, and none of the spirit of his mother.

It is a reminder that he intends to erase.

**AN: Sorry for my absence, been really busy lately/not all that inspired, but I've been wanting to write this piece for about a month now! The characters involved are all from role-play. You might recognize Castion from Reversed, and if you remember much about Reversed at all, you might be able to figure out the identity of the stranger, and of the gray tom at the end. I love connections-forging. **

**Anyway, work on Chilled should resume soon? Maybe? Perhaps?**


	32. 31 Curl Up

**31. Curl Up**

His eyes opened as a paw struck his stomach, and he tensed, ready to attack, only to realize that it had been the young tom he was curled up around. Tobias twitched in his sleep, muzzle twisting as he murmured something inaudible, and he kicked again. His servant grimaced, but didn't move away, not wanting to disturb the young tom's slumber. It had proved rare in the last few days; Tobias had been scurrying to and fro, trying to improve his standing. He was filled with a strange fervor that his servant didn't entirely understand, but accepted, namely because he had no way of changing it.

He turned his head to the side, eying the only two cats Tobias had managed to recruit: Taunt and Swagger. They were neither large nor impressive, merely young thugs, but Tobias had been skillful enough to persuade them into service. His servant still wasn't entirely sure this was a _good _thing, since the two of them had thus far only eaten the food he had caught and complained.

Their current base was also nothing impressive, merely a shed in the back yard of some Twoleg. It was rather cramped with the Twoleg's dusty tools thrown about, and several times he had narrowly avoided stepping on a rusty nail, but it was nice to have a roof over their head, even if it did leak while it rained.

Judging from the light streaming in through the bottom of the shed's door, he guessed it was a little past dawn. Tobias would be up and about soon, continuing to fret over his possessions for whatever reason. He wasn't sharing much with his servant - they were still getting the feel of one another, still figuring each other out, and if it wasn't for the young tom missing his parents so dearly, he wouldn't be snuggled up against his servant's belly - so the older tom could only do his best to keep up.

As if on cue, Tobias twitched again and rolled over, his hazy green eyes slowly opening. He stared at the faint morning light for a moment, before jerking up abruptly.

"Shackle!" he exclaimed, his voice rising into a panicked squeak. "There's no food!"

The servant finally shifted positions with a relieved sigh, sitting up and blinking down at his Master. "The other two ate the last of it before they fell asleep. I believe you saw them."

"Yes, I let them have it, but now we have nothing for him!" Tobias's green eyes were wide, and his tone was urgent. Shackle frowned, perplexed.

"Are you expecting someone, sir?" he asked with a note of hesitation.

"Yes, oaf!" Tobias snapped, looking away. "I've only been preparing all week! And things still don't look good at all…I only have two cats, and this rusty old place, and _no food!_ He's going to be so disappointed." His ears drooped, and Shackle felt a prickle of guilt; clearly, he had missed something, despite his attentiveness.

"Who is it, exactly, that is coming here? Sir?"

Tobias twisted around to look at him again, green eyes sharp. "My _father_, you dolt! He's coming here to check up on me, to see how my first moon has gone! He's expecting me to have so much more accomplished, I just _know _it. He's going to be displeased…."

Shackle was fairly certain he hadn't heard any mention of Tobias's father coming - and considering who it was, he felt certain that he would have remembered if he had - but figured he had probably missed it, somehow, amongst Tobias's frenzied ramblings. "I see. If you would like me to try and catch something, for him before he arrives-"

"Isn't that obvious? Do I really have to give that order?" Tobias growled. "_Yes, _go! And be quick about it!"

Obediently, Shackle heaved himself to his paws, shouldering open the shed door, which usually hung slightly ajar. The hinges had rusted, so it did not open very far, but he managed to squeeze through without much trouble.

To his surprise, his Master followed.

"You could stay, if you wanted," the servant rumbled with a touch of anxiety. "It is not imperative that you come with me if you do not wish to."

"I know, I know," Tobias grumbled, but some of the impatience had left his voice, replaced by worry. "I just don't want to be sitting there if he comes before you. At least this way I can pretend we were doing something important."

"Surely he will not be that difficult to please?" Shackle wondered aloud. His own father had never been truly pleased with his son's performance, but that was to be expected; tools were not praised for doing well. They were expected to work properly, and that was all. Tobias, on the other hand, was certainly not a tool to be wielded. He was practically a prince in the city, someone to be revered and respected, and although Castion had a reputation for being harsh, it was well-known that he was fond of his son. "I think that he would be proud of you, considering what you have accomplished."

"What _I've _accomplished?" Tobias let out a barking laugh, clashing with his young voice. "Do you have any idea what my _father _accomplished his first moon away from home? To hear him tell it, he had at least a dozen followers, and alliances, and a spacious base, and cats that followed his every beck and call…."

"You have me, sir."

"You don't count. He's the reason I have you. If I wasn't his son, I'd have started out with nothing." Tobias's face twisted. "You don't _understand. _You can't. You don't have a father, not a real one."

Shackle winced at that, but could not object; Stone was his father by blood, nothing more. There had never been an ounce of care or compassion in his stern gaze, and after those first horrid nights, the servant had never expected anything more. "Perhaps not. But I still think he should be proud of you."

Tobias paused then, tilting his head to look up at the older tom. "Do you really think that, or are you just saying so?"

He was surprised by the question. "I am not supposed to lie to you, nor do I have the social obligation to do so."

Tobias wrinkled his nose. "You sure do talk funny, considering where you came from," was all he said, but he seemed placated.

Shackle made a few hurried catches - none of them elegant or graceful, but they would feed any guests that came their way - and the two of them started back home.

A strange scent met Shackle's nose as they drew close to the shed, and his pelt prickled. "You should stay back, sir," he began, but Tobias was already darting forwards, around the side of the house, moving out of his servant's line of sight. Shackle hurried after him, feeling a prickle of alarm as the scents grew stronger. He rounded the side of the house and unsheathed his claws as he saw Tobias heading for three strangers standing in the yard, only to again sheathe them as he saw Tobias seemed comfortable with them, although he only had eyes for the tom in the center.

Shackle knew that it must be Castion almost immediately, for Tobias was the spitting image of his father, save for the iciness glinting in the boss's eyes as he sized Shackle up. The servant paused just behind Tobias, giving Castion a respectful dip of his head. Castion did not return the motion - of course - merely studied Shackle a moment longer with a peculiar sort of thoughtfulness, before turning back to Tobias.

"This is where I had heard you were living, and it seems to be true," the boss growled. "I don't expect you're living in the house, now are you?"

Tobias's ears lowered slightly. "N-no…our base is over there." He nodded to the shed. "But the Twoleg living in this house is rather old, and he never has any visitors, so I was thinking that when he died, we could move in. It would make a pretty good place of residence, don't you think?" He blinked up at his father hopefully.

"Twolegs tend to outlive us, old or not," was Castion's reply. "I wouldn't hold out for his death if I was you, unless you intend to arrange it yourself."

"T-that's true," Tobias stammered, and glanced up at Shackle again, as if the gray tom could help.

"Where is your help?" Castion demanded. Tobias seemed puzzled for a moment, and his father snapped, "The cats you have recruited. You have recruited _someone, _haven't you?"

"Oh, yes!" Tobias nodded rapidly. "Yes, of course. Two cats, actually."

"Well? Where are they? You were both gone, and there was no guard here. You could have been walking right into an ambush."

"They're…er…." Tobias trailed off. "I'll get them for you."

Castion's eyes narrowed with disapproval, and Tobias seemed to reconsider his strategy. He turned to Shackle, and a note of arrogance slipped in his voice. "Shackle, go and fetch them."

Shackle dipped his head, eager to get out of Castion's harsh gaze. He moved into the shed, and hissed softly as he saw that the two thugs were both still sleeping. He prodded them both awake with unsheathed claws, ignoring their spitting protests.

"Tobias's father is here," he grunted. "He wishes to meet the pair of you."

The change in their behavior was immediate; their eyes widened simultaneously, and they both swallowed, ears flattening against their heads. Castion's name was legendary even to scum like them, or so it seemed. Without another word to Shackle, the two of them scampered out of the shed. He followed, and Castion's eyes were quickly on him again, before he flicked back to the two recruits.

"This is it?" the golden tom asked, his voice low and contemptuous. "These two are all you have?"

Shackle edged his way to Tobias's side as Castion spoke, not wanting to let his guard down, but the golden tom barely seemed to notice as he withstood his father's berating.

"Y-yes, Father. There's only two of them. But I'm just getting started, really-"

"I should hope so," Castion said curtly. "What are their names?" He bypassed the two recruits entirely, asking Tobias instead, but they seemed grateful not to have to answer for themselves.

"Taunt and Swagger," Tobias murmured, and Shackle could almost smell his shame.

Castion snorted. "What did I tell you about names? Those of your followers need to be just as impressive as your own, especially when you're just starting out. You need to rebrand them immediately." He cocked his head to the side, studying the two toms again. "What do they do, exactly? Obviously they do not hunt, if your servant was doing that. Nor are they fit for guard duty, it seems. They do not look like they could stand their ground in any sort of fight at all."

"We haven't really had to fight or anything yet…." Tobias mumbled. "But I'm sure they're ready for it, if something like that happens-"

He broke off as Castion flicked his tail. Immediately, one of the guards he had brought with him lunged forwards, tackling Swagger to the ground. Without even a pause, Castion's soldier tore the smaller's tom's throat out. Swagger's body jerked as blood pooled around him; his brother let out a yowl of horror and turned tail, only to find himself blocked by Castion's other guard, who bared his fangs. Taunt swayed on his paws, looking about to faint.

Tobias stared on with meek horror, then looked up at Shackle, as if Shackle was supposed to act, but neither Taunt nor Swagger was Shackle's Master, and he cared for them very little. Without a direct order from Tobias, there was no reason for him to act, and there was little he could do for Swagger now, in any case.

"This is one of the last tips I will give you," Castion said breezily, a smile flickering on his muzzle as he looked down at the still-warm body. "Never have two cats for the same duty, if it only takes one. And sometimes the only motivation a cat needs is the knowledge that his life is on the line." He gave Taunt a predatory grin, his signature, and that was all it took; the young tom collapsed in a heap. Tobias let out the quietest of squeaks as his father turned his eyes on him and his servant.

"Now, now, I must say I am disappointed." Castion's voice was like kerosene, deadly, smooth, and slick, but liable to blaze up at any moment with the proper trigger. "You have a paltry excuse for a base. Two - excuse me, I suppose you only have _one _useless follower now. And a servant who seems rather predisposed to sitting around and doing nothing." He took a step towards Shackle, his green eyes twinkling in a way that was both amused and immensely terrifying. For the first time in moons, Shackle felt a prickle of fear run down his spine. "You just sat there while I took a life. Not a muscle did you move. What kind of servant does that?"

Shackle remained silent; it was his place, his station, not to talk unless directed, especially not to one so high. This did not please Castion; his face twisted again, but he regained his composure as he looked down to his son.

"Very disappointing indeed, Tobias," he said, his voice a low hiss, and Tobias flinched as if he had been struck.

"I-I'm sorry, Father, but I'm just starting out, and-"

"I started with _nothing,_" Castion seethed, cutting him off. "Nothing and no one. You have advantages I never had, Tobias, and yet it seems that so far you've accomplished nothing. I've given you training. I've given you the family's name, our legend. I've given you this brute-" he paused to jerk his head towards Shackle, "-and yet you have earned nothing of value. Why is that, Tobias?" He shook his head before his son could offer up an answer. "I do not like it, Tobias. I do not like it one bit. I expected better from you." He turned away. "I will be back, Tobias, in another moon, to see what you have accomplished. I do not want to be disappointed again. Do you understand?" Despite the phrasing, it was not truly a question.

"Now then. Since I have cost you a follower, albeit a worthless, sluggish imbecile, it is only fair that I repay you in kind. You may have Gregor." He nodded to the cat that had slain Swagger, who in turn dipped his head. "I trust you will use him well. Goodbye, Tobias, and remember: one moon."

And in the space of a single blink - or so it seemed - he was gone, taking one cat with him and leaving the other behind.

Gregor was older than any of them, dark gray with a scarred muzzle. Shackle sized him up, but couldn't read his expression, at least not when he was looking at Tobias; when Gregor turned his eyes on Shackle, the distaste there was clear.

"Sir, if you do not object, I would like to patrol the surrounding area," Gregor said, his voice thick and raspy. Tobias gave him a distracted nod, and with a respectful bow, Gregor was on his way.

Tobias turned to stare at Taunt's prone form - he was breathing, so at least Castion had not frightened him to death - before padding back to the shed without a word. Shackle hesitated, then followed.

His Master padded into the back, where the two of them usually slept, and stared at the floor for a long moment. Then, with a snarl, he slashed at it, ripping up a few splinters of wood. He struck again, and again, until Shackle finally cleared his throat.

"What?" Tobias snarled as he turned around, and his servant was a bit shaken to see the wildness in the young tom's eyes.

"I was only going to suggest you be careful not to-"

"Not to what? Cut my paws on this stupid wood? Not to get a splinter when I sleep? Shut up! You made me look like an idiot out there!"

Shackle winced. "I did not mean-"

"I did not mean to make you look like a blubbering moron, sir," Tobias mocked. "Stuff it! I'm sick of hearing you talk like that, like you have any _right _to act so stiff! Who taught you that, huh? Not your scum-of-the-earth father, that's for sure!"

Shackle flinched again. "If you wish to punish me-"

"Damn right I'm going to punish you!" Tobias spat. "You should have hunted faster, so we could have gotten back in time to get everything ready. You should have hunted _yesterday. _You should have stopped those two morons from eating everything. You should have woken them up when we left. But you didn't do anything, you didn't do any of that. You're useless."

"I did not know that was what you wanted. If you had given the order, I would have-"

"I'm sick of that shit!" Tobias shouted. "Orders this and orders that. Do I have to _think _for you, you lumbering mass of stupidity? My father was right. You didn't even move when that beast tore Swagger apart. You should have stopped him. Swagger was _mine, _and you let him take him from me!"

That was the real crux of the matter, then. Tobias was shaken by Swagger's death, something that should have been preventable, and there was only one other cat he could take it out on.

Shackle's expression softened. "Sir. With all due respect, my loyalties were not to Swagger. They are to you."

"_Only _me? Not to my father?" Tobias's voice trembled them, and Shackle felt a flood of guilt. Had he really given his Master any reason to doubt him?

"Yes, of course. You are the only cat who can guide me. It is you who gives me orders. I can take them from no one else. I am yours to wield however you see fit."

Tobias let out the quietest of breaths. "My father likes giving me things. But he also likes taking them away."

"I assure you, he cannot do so to me. I am yours until I draw my last breath, and even then whatever is left of me belongs to you."

"You mean that?" Tobias stared into Shackle eyes, his own vulnerable behind his forced bravado.

"I do. It is my promise to you. Your father has no direction over me, and he never will, not so long as you are alive."

Tobias nodded then, and looked away again, staring at the floor once more for several minutes. Then, he sighed, and his young shoulders slumped. "Swagger's gone."

"Yes. He is. But you still have Taunt, and I think he will be more useful from now on. And you have Gregor."

"Gregor's only here because of my father's name. If he comes back next moon and I fail him again…." Tobias shook his head, shoulders trembling. "My father loves me, I know that, but he's just so…forceful. If I fail him again…."

"You won't." Shackle's voice was firm. "I am not in a position to give you advice, but if I could, it would be this: use what your father has taught you today. This is not a suitable base, and now you know not to keep cats like Swagger around, unless they prove themselves useful. If you wish to make him proud, you must forge your own path decisively and with precision. Take advantage of what he has given you. Use Gregor to his full potential, and me, and you will not fail."

"And you'll always be here, to help," Tobias meowed, and Shackle nodded again.

"Always."

Tobias sighed again, but this time it was lighter, edged with hope despite his weariness. "Than-" He caught himself, and shook his head. "Never mind. I need to rest. Just for a little bit. An hour, maybe." He looked to Shackle. "Come here."

Obediently Shackle came forward and lied down on the wood, rough where Tobias had torn it. His Master curled up against his stomach, and Shackle moved to envelope him.

"Wake me in an hour," Tobias murmured, closing his eyes. And then, "Shackle?"

"Yes, sir?"

"This is the last time, alright? I can't act like a kit forever. I have to stand on my own four paws, and sleep on them too. No more hiding. This next moon is going to be very different."

Shackle stared down at his Master's young face, noticing how the marks of youth were already giving way to edged ambition, to his father's forcefulness. And he smiled, although the smile was shadowed with sadness.

"You don't have to tell me that, sir."

**AN: Poor Swagger's only crime was having a terrible name. :''''(**


	33. 32 Together

**AN: Kk so this is for my dear Shimmertail**

**as revengeance for Blue Memories (go read it you guys even if you don't know who the characters are it is lovely beyond belief/so sad tho for real). Not anywhere as good but we can't all be Shimmers, now can we. :I**

**Uh idk what the timeline is cause I have no idea when TacoClan is moving to the mountains or whatever or even what part they're living in, but there's a lake or something right? And I decided to make it winter because I love SNOW. And white looks so gud with red.**

**32. Together**

The air was fresh and clear as they set out together – just the two of them, as it was always meant to be. The snow tumbled around their heads, buffeting their ears, but it hardly mattered, for every time he looked at her he was filled with fresh warmth, as though a fire was lurking in his chest, his paws, his ears, warming him from nose to tail. They could be buried under a mountain of the stuff together, and he would still feel as though his pelt was crackling.

She seemed oblivious to his loving eyes as she tilted her head back to look up at the gray clouds hanging above their heads, their bellies full with snow yet unshed. He marveled at the flakes hanging on her ears, at the way her delicate nose twitched, at the slightest ruffle of fur on her shoulders, the only hint that she was feeling the chill too.

"We can't stay out for long," he said finally, tearing his gaze away from her to squint up at the sky as well. "It's not as though there will be much prey out yet, anyway."

She twitched her whiskers at him, blue eyes glittering. "We're not here for prey, Froggy," she teased, her voice as airy as the white powder fluttering around them. "You can't honestly tell me you don't want to see the territory. Can you imagine what the lake looks like now?"

"We can check out the lake, but then we're heading right back," he meowed, and she nodded. Her eyes flicked back to him again, and he saw the mischief twinkling in them half a second before she tossed up the snow. It splattered across his muzzle, and he sputtered as she darted away, laughing over her shoulder. Her golden-brown pelt was a beacon against the blanket of white, and he charged after her, a playful growl growing in his throat.

They charged through the forest together, nipping and pawing at each other like a pair of wolves, taking tumbles in the snow until they were both covered in the stuff, their fur standing up in all directions. She threatened to disappear into the snow altogether, until her blue eyes were the only way for him to pick her apart from the landscape.

On and on they went, until the stiff forest was left behind them, and open tundra spread before their paws. It took the two of them a moment to realize what they were looking at: the lake, completely frozen and covered in a thick layer of snow. Were it now for the small dip downwards, it would be impossible to tell where earth ended and ice began.

"It's so _big." _Her voice was full of wonder, reminding him of a tiny kit who had been willing to reach out to a stranger in the Clan's midst. "It seems like we could walk all day and never see the end of it."

"Well, we're definitely not doing that," he meowed with a roll of his eyes, giving his coat a shake. "We really should get back, Larkflight….Smokefrost will be cross."

"We're doing him a favor, scouting out the territory." Her whiskers twitched.

"It could be dangerous. There are mountain cats, you know, and there could be more lurking around here…." His eyes darkened as he remembered a hulking figure draped with midnight shadows, yellow eyes glowing like lanterns in the gloom.

Hers softened. "There's nothing to worry about, Copper." The usage of his old name makes him feel young again, small, and for a moment it's not her face framed by snow, but another golden she-cat smiling down at him. "He's not here. It's a fresh start…for you, me, for the whole Clan. Let's make the most of it."

He didn't say anything for a moment, trying to brush the cobwebs away. Then, he pasted on a smile – that's what she deserved, his fire-kindler, his love, not a mate that was stuck in the past – and playfully smacked her muzzle with one snow-covered paw, before darting onto the frozen surface of the lake.

The snow was thinner than he had initially thought; he could feel the ice underneath his paws, dangerous and slick, and for a moment, his cautious side flared up as he remembered when Icepaw had nearly died falling through the frozen river in their old territory. But he pushed his doubts aside, caste them away, and went on, tossing a glance over his shoulder to make sure she was following. She was, of course. She'd follow him anywhere, and he'd do the same if she took the lead.

They zig-zagged over the lake together, casting a wide and frenzied path. He remained in the lead – just barely at times, other times by several fox-lengths, always drawing back just enough to tease her into giving more effort – until he had no idea which way was home. For once, that didn't bother him; he let his heart ride the wind with the snowflakes, let his troubles peel away behind him like dying embers. Larkflight was right – she often was, more so than he liked to admit – this was a new start for everyone. Here there was no such cat as Shackle. There was no question of loyalty or horrific battle. There was nothing but the gray horizon pressing up against the white earth, the stony mountains in the distant, the forest somewhere behind them. Nothing but her and her dancing eyes, her laugh that made him feel as though his paws were barely touching the earth at all, as if he could run forever without ever getting tired or losing a scrap of warmth.

And then, there it was. The slightest crackle – barely enough to even register – underneath his paws. The smallest ill omen, the tiniest warning. It was still enough to make him pause, to make his paws skid against the slick surface. He lost his balance, slipping onto his side – another crack – and he saw Larkflight's eyes light up, taking it as a sign of surrender.

"Don't—" he began, but she was already in the air – she hadn't heard it, how could she? – poised to strike. He rolled on his back just as she landed. Her paws struck the ice, and there came the crack, the splintering. He saw the alarm in her eyes, and without even thinking – there was no time for that, no time at all – he kicked up with everything he had, sending her into the air, sending her backwards, just as the world beneath him fell apart.

The cold of the water took his breath away. He thought he'd felt cold before – that night with Shackle, that morning where they found Jayshadow's body coated with frost, any number of icy nights before they'd decided to spend them wrapped up in one another – but the lake took any prior inkling he had and crushed it, compounded it into a tiny ball. It rose up within him, said _This is what true ice is, this is how your blood freezes in your veins, _gripped him with a chilling fist and began dragging him down, down, down, until his vision was as silvery and shimmering as the bubbles escaping his jaws.

And then there was an explosion above him, a dark shape blotting out the light, and he felt her around him, felt her jaws grab his scruff. She pulled up with all her might, and for the briefest moment he could see her eyes, wide with fear and desperation. And that was enough to send a spark racing through him, to make his heart pound again, for if there was one thing he could not do, it was let her be hurt.

He kicked upwards just as she did, the two of them fighting their way up to the surface together. His claws scrambled against the side of the side, and he barely felt the slivers cut into his pads. He couldn't get a grip, could barely move as numb as he was, and he was not aware that she had let go.

She was up on the ice again, she was bending to grab him, she was pulling with all her might, and with the last of his strength, he heaved himself upwards.

He flopped on the ice, gasping like a dying fish. Water streamed from his pelt, gathering around him in a puddle. The ice groaned underneath the two of them, and Larkflight began dragging him. He could hear her straining, could hear the pain in the back of her voice – it was no easy task to drag a cat his size, no – but he could do little more than twitch his paws.

Then, she stopped, and he heard her sharp intake of voice. His head rose, and he tried looking at her, but his vision was still swimming. He realized he was trembling from nose to tail, but didn't care.

"A-are you alright?" he asked, barely conscious of his chattering teeth, only to blink as she darted around to his front.

"Oh no," she whispered, and he tried to raise his head, but stopped as she shot him a glance. Her expression – like she was shattering, somehow, like something inside of her was splintering – chilled him more than the lake.

"Don't move, don't move," she meowed, as she began scooping up the snow surrounding them, packing it against his stomach. It became a mantra, losing its meaning as she repeated it over and over. _Don't move, don't move, don't move._

For the first time, he noticed the odd trail they had left, the wide swath cut by his horizontal form, and then something else, something strange…scarlet feathers against the alabaster snow.

_How odd, _he thought dizzily, aware of the ice burning his ear. _I haven't seen feathers like that before, not ever…._

But then, it smeared, as Larkflight moved back and forth, and even his cloudy mind knew that feathers didn't smear. His eyes drifted down to his stomach, and he noted with mild detachment that the snow against his belly was red too. The crimson and white looked wrong together, alien. The pureness of the snow shouldn't be sullied in such a manner, and he opened his mouth to tell Larkflight this, before he saw the tremor in her legs, the way the lake-water was already freezing on her pelt.

"You're all wet," he whispered, voice as soft as a kit's. "You need to get warm, Larkflight."

She looked down at him again, and he saw her fighting back the shadows in her eyes, trying to shine instead, as he had done before, trying to push her dark thoughts away.

"I'm warm enough," she meowed, and then swallowed. "You're hurt, Copperblaze. But you're going to be fine, okay? We'll just wait out this storm, and we'll see the way home, and then somehow we'll get you back…."

"I'm fine," he meowed, and moved to show her, but his legs wouldn't work properly. They were stiff, and felt as though they weren't connected to him at all, as if they were just ginger sticks lying in front of him – that's exactly what they looked like, with his wet fur flattened against his bones.

"Don't move," she said again, her voice close to breaking. "Your belly was cut on the ice. It's my fault, I should have been more careful, but you were freezing and I…."

She shook her head. "It's going to be okay. We're going to be fine."

She moved behind him again, and he felt her press up against him, curling up around him as he had done for her during so many icy nights. He rested his head back against her chest, feeling her already-freezing fur crackling against him.

"Are you alright?" he murmured, and felt her lick his ear.

"I'm fine, I told you. Just fine. And _we're _going to be fine, understand? I'm not letting anything happen to you, you furball."

He smiled as he leaned against her, and closed his eyes – just for a moment, the snow was too bright and everything looked sharp in a way he couldn't explain – only for her to nip his ear.

"Talk," she ordered. "We have to talk. We have to move just a little bit. Wiggle your paws."

He did as he was ordered, his ginger paws barely twitching. "What do you want me to talk about?"

"Anything." She was quiet for a moment. "Why not a story? Like the ones your mother used to tell?"

His mind drifted to the nursery, when he and Larkflight and Jayshadow had all shared stories with another. He tried to remember which one he had told, but it flitted just out of his reach. "I don't know any stories anymore."

"Yes, you do." Her voice was level, but he could hear the worry around the edges. "With Maple, right? Maple and Red and Mud and Swifty…."

They popped into his mind, the faces he had imagined when his mother had entertained him with the story of how the maple had gotten its red leaves in fall. He almost smiled, then frowned; why could she remember, when he couldn't?

"You told a story about a storm, didn't you?" he asked. "Something like that."

"Yeah, I did."

"And Jay…." He wrinkled his nose. "Jay told us about…."

He stared in front of him, as if the gray tom would appear and remind him, but of course there was nothing there, nothing but swirling wind. They wouldn't see him again, not in their lifetimes.

"I miss him," he said aloud. "I never thought he wouldn't be there. Sometimes we were so busy and he fell by the wayside, but…I always thought there would be time."

"So did I." Her voice was soft, barely audible, but he could hear it rumbling in her chest. "We were all he had, he was all I had, and if I had ever thought….I should have been there. I should have been awake with him. He felt so alone sometimes, and I tried but I couldn't…."

"If you had been awake, they would have gotten you too." That much he could remember. That much he was sure of. Jayshadow's body, stark on the ground – there had been scarlet feathers, hadn't there? – and the camp covered in the rogues' handiwork. Shackle's handiwork. "I couldn't live with that, Larkflight. I couldn't live without you."

She pressed her nose against his head. "I couldn't live without you either, mousebrain…." There it was again, that edge to her voice, that icy note of fear.

"We're just waiting for the storm to pass. Then we'll get back to camp." _Then my legs will work again and my teeth will stop chattering and my stomach will stop throbbing, why is it throbbing…._

"Yeah. Of course." She was quiet for a moment. Then, "Can we name one after him? If there's one that looks like him, I mean. When it happens."

It took him a moment to piece together what she meant. Then, he imagined it, a little gray bundle of fur tucked up against her stomach. It seemed impossible, with their pelt colors, but who knew? Perhaps there was a trace of Jayshadow lurking inside of her.

"Jaykit," he said, tasting the word as if he had never said it before. "I like it. Jaykit would be perfect."

"I know he'd understand," she meowed. "He'd understand that we loved him, that we didn't mean to make him feel…."

"He knows that," he assured her. "He knows that right now, up there. Of course he does. He couldn't possibly think otherwise."

"I hope so."

There was silence again, and he could feel himself drifting. He wiggled his paws again experimentally, but this time he couldn't tell if they had actually moved or not. His fur was frozen in spikes, jutting up angrily at the sky. A light dusting of snow had fallen over the two of them, but he made no move to brush it away. Sometimes the snow could help warn you. He'd heard that, once. If you were cold and if there was enough snow, you were supposed to bury yourself in it to contain your warmth.

He opened his mouth to tell Larkflight, but the words died in his throat, releasing nothing but a plume of frost into the air. Her heartbeat was low and slow against his ear. Low and slow and fading….

A jolt of energy flowed into him then, and his head rose as he struggled to look up at her. "Larkflight. You need to go."

Her blue eyes were hard. "I'm not leaving you, Copperblaze."

"You have to go back to camp," he insisted. "It's too cold out here. You're going to freeze. We're going to….You have to go back."

"I don't even know where camp is now. Our tracks are long gone, and we can't even see the trees…besides, I'm not leaving you. I'm not. You didn't leave me, when I was stuck in that hole. And I'm not leaving you now. Together, remember? That's what we promised."

He knew she wasn't going to leave. He knew he couldn't make her. He knew he didn't want her to, because he knew that there were no scarlet feathers, that it was something far more serious than that. He knew his chattering had stopped, because there was no point in it now. He knew his heart was beating low and slow like hers, fading. He knew that if she left now, she would never find camp, and the two of them would be alone when the cold overcame them.

So he shifted his weight, rose his head just enough that he could rest it on her shoulder, as though they were still in the den together, just sleeping, as if they had a den around them to keep them warm and safe from harm. She moved to lick his nose, and he nuzzled her muzzle.

"I love you, Copperblaze," she murmured to him, and he could whisper it back with full certainty.

"I love you, Larkflight," and he thought that there was someone he wanted to introduce her to, someone they might be meeting very soon.

It snows on for the rest of the night, cloaking them in a layer of ivory. In the morning, the clouds clear away, the sun shines down, but they don't feel its warmth. Nor do they hear the crackling of the ice beneath them. They're still locked together as the ice slowly cracks. They sink into the icy depths without a murmur, without barely a ripple, as the lake claims them. Together, as they were always meant to be, from the very moment when a scruffy ginger kit was dragged into camp against his will, and a golden she-kit offered to show him around, neither knowing the delight and heartbreak and warmth and cold that was to follow.

**AN: So yeah half of this doesn't even make sense unless you know the rp and the incidents and stuff (well I guess you guys did read the Cop/Shaq meet-up in that one one-shot, Presence? But you prolly don't remembob) but oh welllll it was fun to write even though I thought of it like two months ago hrrg.**

**The original was nothing like this at all (they were on their second litter by then actually, and it was one of the kits that was the focus, but it still woulda been sad ok because how else would I do proper revengeance for that piece o' mastery that is BM) but that's okay I think because I have a srs hard-on for snow. Good job do I love the fluffy stuff.**

**But that's neither here nor there and this is Night!Prin talking and I apologize to the readers that aren't familiar with her because she is a beast to behold, odear.**


	34. 33 Look Again

**AN: This is the…idk, fourth one-shot for the TacoClan challenge? Again, you guys don't know the characters, but you can get the gist of it I think. This is just backstory for one of my dudes anyway.**

**Dedicated to Shader, who made Spotted interesting for me in the first place. May he and Fiora have a dozen babies together (and only one be kidnapped). :D**

**33. Look Again**

The forest was a terrifying place. That was the only thing he could think as he cowered underneath the bush, listening to the rain lash against the trees. The limbs of his fragile hiding place whipped to and fro in the wild winds, and he nearly leaped out of his pelt as the scene was illuminated by white light, followed by a horrific crash.

He had never seen a storm up close, not like this. Before there had been a thick pane of glass between him and the rain, the wind, the lightning and thunder. Before, there were arms – old and trembling, but arms none the less – to scoop him up and hold him close while he was afraid. He had thought he was brave then, when he dared stand next to the window and watch the heavens roar.

He'd had no idea what bravery was.

His fur was plastered to his sides, exposing his thin frame. His eyes felt as though they were going to pop out of his head with each new rumble. Tremors wracked him furiously, making it hard to even see the raindrops splattering against the mud and foliage.

If there was ever a time he thought he would die, it was then.

"Hey!" came a voice over the wind and wailing of the storm. It sounded like an angel, and at first he thought he was only imagining things, that he had finally snapped and gone mad from the pressure of being a kittypet in the wild.

But it came again, that chipper call, and he saw a hazy figure beginning to take shape. Fear grabbed him as he flashed back to those times in the garden, those moments when the other kittypets – of higher blood than his own, _aristocratic _cats – would drop by just to tease him mercilessly, and rough him up if there was time. He tried scooting back even farther into the bush, but the sharp branches poked into his pelt, making him whimper.

And then suddenly there was a face right in front of his as the stranger leaped forwards, her green eyes aglow with mischief.

"Hey there!" she chirped, as if the sky wasn't trying to tear itself in two above their heads. "You look frozen half to death, poor thing. Come with me, we'll get you all nice and warmed up!"

He didn't move, and she tapped his muzzle a few times with one white paw. "Come on, I won't bite. But you're going to catch something terrible if you sit out here in the rain. I'll show you around, sweetie."

Sweetie. The word hovered in his mind, but he didn't hear it as he came from her. Her voice was replaced by another, older and thinner and more papery. His fears ebbed away, and slowly he wiggled out from his hiding place. She grinned, and bounced away, leading him further into the forest.

Her den was between the gnarled roots of an old oak, and she stepped to the side to allow him to enter. He curled up in the very back corner of the den, ears flattening as he saw all the water he had tracked in.

"Apologies," he said, his voice a nervous squeak. Her green eyes widened as she came into the den.

"Oh! You're a tom." As soon as the words left her, she seemed embarrassed. "Oh, I'm sorry. It's just because of the rain, and you look so thin, I just assumed…."

His ears flattened. The mistake had occurred several times before, thanks to his delicate build. Usually his feathery fur made him appear at least a bit bigger, but the rain had taken care of that advantage.

"I understand," he meowed, then sneezed. Her eyes glinted with sympathy.

"Well, Mr. Manly Tom, it looks like you've had it rough." She shook herself, sending water splattering over the dusty den. "Sleeping is the best way to pass a storm, in my experience. So go ahead, take a load off." She seemed to note his anxiety, and smiled. "You're safe here, I promise. You can sleep."

Her expression was earnest and kind, and he could find no malice or hidden motives within it. He let out a quiet, shuddering breath and curled up, pressing his soggy nose against his sopping-wet tail, and willed himself to sleep.

. . .

In the morning, it was as though the forest had been transformed. When he awoke, light – brilliant and golden – streamed into the den's entrance. His mysterious benefactor was nowhere to be seen, and so he cautiously approached the entrance. He stared out of the den, noting the bright green leaves and supple bark of the trees round him, before ducking back inside as he saw flickering movement in the undergrowth.

Fear prickled him again, but he relaxed as the familiar "Hey!" greeted him once again.

The she-cat entered her den with a mouse in her jaws, which she presented to him with pride.

"Caught the fat little bugger sitting right next to his hole," she purred. "Mice are just as dazzled by the sights as we are sometimes, I think. I know it's not what you kittypets usually eat, but you'll need your strength if you want to get home again."

He blinked, surprised. "How did you come to the conclusion that I belong to the people?"

Her whiskers twitched. "Your accent, for one thing." Her voice had a teasing note to it, without the menace he was used to. "But it's also pretty hard to find a wild cat that isn't smart enough to take shelter in a real ripper like we had last night. Two and two makes three, you know."

He eyed her, uncertain as to whether or not she was joking, before looking down at the mouse. He'd never had prey like this before – at least not that he could remember – but his stomach was aching terribly. He hadn't eaten for at least two days.

"Many thanks," he meowed, then nosed it towards her. "It is not fair of me to eat your catch, however."

Her whiskers twitched again. "Think I poisoned it, did you?" With that she took a bite of the plump creature, and rolled it back to him. "Go ahead, you can have it. Prey pops up all over the place during newleaf, it's ridiculous. I won't starve."

He hesitated, but the smell wafting from the little creature was too tempting to resist. He ducked his head and took a small bite, then another, before wolfing the mouse down entirely. The she-cat looked on with amusement.

"Better, right?" she purred. "I bet that blows your kittypet food out of the water. But we should hurry if we want to get you home before nightfall. Twolegplace is pretty far away. I'm surprised you got out as far as you did."

"I do not wish to return there," he meowed, ears lowering again. "Twolegplace is no longer my home."

She seemed puzzled. "What happened? Did your Twoleg kick you out?"

He shook his head. "It was nothing like that. She loved me very much, but…I could not stand being there anymore."

She still looked confused, but didn't press further. "Okay. You can stick with me, for now, until you decide what you want to do. I'm Specs, by the way."

It was the strangest name he'd ever heard. "Specs?"

She sighed. "My full name is Speckledown, but I hate it, so I go by Specs."

His eyes traced over her pelt – brown and white patched together – and he noted the darker tabby marks on the earthy splashes. "I quite like Speckledown."

"If you call me that, I'm kicking you out of the den." He had to look up at her face again to make sure she was joking. "What's your name, then, Mr. Manly?"

"Theodore."

"Theodore? Fancy." She frowned. "I bet there's a nickname for that somewhere, though. Don't Twolegs make up those sorts of things for their pets? Did yours call you Theo? Don't tell me she called you Door."

"Teddy." He winced at the name; it sounded childish, weak. He had heard it shouted mockingly more times than he cared to remember. "On occasion my person would call me Teddy."

"Now _that _is a cute name." Her eyes twinkled. "I am definitely calling you Teddy from now on. I'll even let you call me Speckledown in exchange, so long as you keep that between us."

He felt another tremor of anxiety. "Are there more cats here?"

"Oh, tons. And most of them are jerks." She rolled her eyes. "Rudy thinks he owns the place, the big oaf. Always swaggering around like he's the best thing since catmint. But if you stay out of his way, he won't bother you. He doesn't mess with toms so much." Her eyes darkened at that, but she soon brightened again. "You should just stay away from him and his cronies, okay? But never mind all that. We should go see the forest now! It's always prettiest after a good rain."

His stomach churned. "The forest seems like a frightening place."

"To a kittypet, sure. I mean if you can only see it from within your Twoleg's homes, it seems like another world altogether, doesn't it? You just have to take another look at things. Think of it as a home, instead of the wilderness." She smiled. "I'll show you, come on. We'll make a loner out of you yet."

She led him outside – it would be rude to say no, after all – and paused for a moment, craning her neck back to look up at the sky. He did the same, and was surprised to see how _blue _it was, untouched by any clouds.

"See?" she asked. "Last night it looked like death itself, but this morning it's all light and pretty. There are far more pretty days out here than death-days. And see the trees?" She flicked her tail towards the oak branches above them. "See how the leaves shine? Last night they looked like the claws of monsters or something, jerking all over the place, but this morning they're tranquil and lovely."

His eyes traced the twisted wood, noting with some amount of awe how many offshoots of one branch there could be, and how each led to more and more and more….He'd never taken the time to study trees before, even in the garden.

"I bet we can find that old bush you were hiding in," she purred, trotting forwards. He trailed after her, unable to recognize anything they had seen the night before. He didn't even notice the bush until she pointed it out. Even in the morning light it seemed bedraggled, and he was puzzled by the delight on her face until he saw two beady black eyes in the shadows.

"Rabbit," she whispered. "Prey needs somewhere to hide too. But don't you see how nice it looks now? How great everything is, all sparkling and clean and nourished and happy? You have to give things a second chance, Teddy. You've got to look again and again and again to see the full picture." She grinned at him, then poked his chest. "First one back to the den is a rotten egg!" she crowed, before turning tail and disappearing into the brush. He was frozen for a moment, hoping she'd come back, imagining her being gobbled up by some fearsome creature, but as the scents of moist earth and new leaves and prey rose in his nose, and as the melodies of birds filled his ears, he felt himself relax. Taking a deep breath, he hurried after her, heading to what would become his home.

. . .

Time passed easily like that, at least for awhile. Speckledowns was the most accommodating hostess he could have ever hoped to find; she was always up bright and early in the mornings to hunt for the two of them, and in time he found himself rising to join her. She was a patient teacher, and had a sharp eye for his mistakes, although she was always careful not to get too under his fur in pointing them out. He had a feeling she had some inkling of the bullying he'd suffered under the paws of cats better than him, and was kinder because of it.

In time, he let his anxieties fall by the wayside. The forest _was _beautiful, in a stange, still-somewhat-terrifying way, and he felt as though he was becoming a part of it, piece by piece. He recognized the birdsong in the morning, knew the scents of the area around their den as well as he'd known those in his garden, saw the same rabbit under his bush every day. It was a routine that he was comfortable with, and Speckledown's sunny presence made it all the better.

But there were the dark moments, too. Sometimes he'd come across scents he didn't recognize, masculine and strong, and be struck by that old fear again. Sometimes Speckledown would return to their den with ruffled fur and breathlessness, although all she would say was that she had been "fast enough." Sometimes he would hear rustling and crackles in the undergrowth that he knew did not belong to Speckledown's small paws. Sometimes they would find slain prey, some poor creature killed for sport and tossed around before being left like trash, always with those strange tom-scents hanging around.

Speckledown hardly wavered during these moments. It was a part of her own routine, this dodging of Rudy and his crew, and she seemed to think herself entirely capable of standing on her own. And he found that he loved that about her, loved her determination and spirit and kindness, loved how he always had her ears when there was something on his chest, loved how she would always be there when she was needed.

Until one day, she wasn't.

He had decided to sleep in that morning – a decision that would later keep him up night after night – and thus her absence was unnoticed for some time. It wasn't until sunhigh that he was finally ready to get up, and when he did, he was surprised to find that she was not there. He scented the air, but her scent was stale.

Fear should have prickled his pelt then, but it didn't. He'd grown complacent. Relaxed. Soft, not in a kittypet way, but in a the-wilderness-bears-no-real-danger way. The nothing-can-hurt-us-here way. An that was a mistake.

He left the den, feeling curious, and scented the air again just to make sure that she was not near. He thought that she might be playing some sort of trick on him, waiting for him to come looking so that she could ambush him, as she had done before. That was the one time he didn't mind his pelt growing dirty, because it made her eyes glow so brightly to tweak his nose and call him Teddy with the certainty that she had fooled him.

He headed down their usual path, doing his best to look unaware and unprepared. He was, although he didn't know that yet.

He followed her scent for some time, before growing bored.

_She is probably only exploring, _he told himself. _She does enjoy wandering a bit, and I have been holding her back from that with my presence. I believe that she still thinks of me as a kittypet, in some ways. Perhaps she is right. But I have learned much the past few moons, under her tutelage. If she does wish to wander further in this wide forest of hers, I should prove to her that I can come as well. _He smiled to himself. _I should catch her something special…and then maybe I could…._

Could what? Tell her about the warmth that blossomed in him when she smiled? Tell her about how her voice was easily sweeter than any birdsong he could imagine? Mention how he sometimes wished it was colder, just so he would have an excuse to curl around her in the night, to feel her heart beating?

He flushed under his fur at the very thought of saying any of those things. He had no experience in such a field, and even the idea made him feel flustered.

He licked his chest, giving himself a mental shake. _Get a move on, or the prey will all be in hiding and you will have nothing to present her with!_

He turned back the way he had come, bounding through the forest with his feathered tail in the air, eyes searching for something special enough to bring back to his lady love.

. . .

When he finally collapsed in the den, exhausted by his efforts, he only had a jay to show for his hard work. It wasn't much, but he knew she very much liked their feathers, and how they so resembled the sky.

_I could tell her that this is her own piece of sky, _he thought, stared down at the bird. _Or…is that too foolish? Perhaps I could just say that she could keep the feathers and then she would say something about the sky…but what if she doesn't say anything? What if she does not like them after all?_

Anxiety prickled his pelt. _I could…I could mention the sky. That isn't really the important thing anyway, now is it? The important thing is how I feel…about her and her voice and her fur and her kindness and the way her eyes shine…that is all I really want her to know, truly. _

He licked his chest again, flattening his fur, trying his best to look presentable. No matter what he said, she would understand, wouldn't she? She who called him 'Teddy,' who knew him far better than any other ever had….

And then he caught it wafting into the den, her scent. He rose to his paws, green eyes gleaming with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. He opened his mouth, but the words died on his tongue as he caught another scent. Blood.

The jay was forgotten as he rushed out of the den just in time to see her collapse. Her pelt was ruffled, fur torn out in places. Several wounds on her shoulders and back oozed blood, as though someone had tried pinning her down. She trembled like a leaf in a storm, and he was struck by icy fear.

"Speckledown!" he exclaimed, rushing to her side. "Oh, by the gods. What happened? Are you alright? What can I do, what can I….?"

He looked around wildly, as if the culprit would just appear, or someone would give him advice, but of course there was no one. The only reply he received were the oak leaves above their heads shaking as a breeze rolled through their tiny home.

He grabbed her scruff then, pulling her into the den as well as he could. His shoulders and neck cried out with the effort but he didn't stop, not until she was inside. He snarled down at her, praying her eyes would open, but she only twitched as if she was asleep. Then, her jaws parted, and she murmured something, so softly that he could barely catch it.

"Not fast enough. Not fast enough."

. . .

He did not know what had happened. There were some things that were beyond him, out of his grasp, areas in which he had no experience. He stood by her, did the best he could, helped her heal and endured her snapping when she needed space. She wasn't overtly hostile to him, not on purpose, but there were times when flames glowed in her green eyes and he felt a genuine prickle of fear.

It would pass. That was what he told himself. Whatever had occurred out there in the dark forest was over, and she would learn to relax again, as he had.

But there were differences. She stopped wanting to go outside. Even when he coaxed her out, hoping to re-inspire her, babbling on about giving things another look, she only squinted in the sunshine for a few moments before retreating back in. So when he woke up one morning and she was not there, he was afraid.

This time he did not think about any silly pranks or surprises. He headed out of the den, hurried down their well-worn path, following her scent as best as he could. But somewhere in the dew and ferns he lost it, lost _her, _and was filled with panic.

_You have failed her once, _he told himself. _You cannot do so again._

He veered away from their trail, charging into the forest, areas that he usually did not tread. He turned over every rock, looked under every leaf for her, stared up at the sky as if that would help guide him, but there was no sign of her anywhere. It was as though she had melted away like the dew, sunk into the earth like the rain, flown away like a bird.

He was so focused on finding her that he didn't know he was being followed, until it was too late. By the time he smelled the strong tom-scent on the air, heard the crackles in the undergrowth, saw the glimmering eyes in the shadows, they were all around him. He froze up, tail bristling, just as a large tom emerged from the shade. His fur was white mixed with a deep russet-brown; bold tabby markings stood out on his head. His eyes were an odd, milky blue as he stared down at his captured prey.

A smile twisted his muzzle, and he leered, "Hello there, sweets. What brings you into Rudy's part o' town?"

He swallowed, filled with fear, hating his small frame. "I am not here for anything in particular, nor am I looking for anyone. I am just passing through."

The tom blinked for a moment, then barked out a derisive laugh. "You're a tom! A puny one too. Lookit this guy." He tossed a glance over his shoulder at his followers, before boxing Theodore's ears. The tom ducked, but wasn't quite fast enough. The blow laid him out on his side, ears ringing, and he was ashamed of the quiet sound that leaked out of his mouth.

"Damned pathetic!" Rudy gloated, milky eyes glowing with amusement. "Not looking for anyone, eh? That sounds stupid. Do you think you're clever, tiny tom? Do you think you can play Rudy for a fool, eh? Who are you looking for, then? Go on!" His heavy paw struck the ground like a thunderclap, and Theodore flinched.

"I-I am only looking for my friend, my companion," he meowed. "S-Speckledown. She seems to have gotten lost, I think, and she was in quite a bit of trouble earlier this moon, and it really is desperately important that I find her again—"

Rudy cut him off with a boisterous, ugly laugh. "Specs! You're with little Specs? Oh, she was a fine lady. Took us awhile, but we finally got the drop on her, didn't we?" He looked at the other toms again, and a few of them chuckled with him.

"Lemme get a lookit you," he grunted, returning his attention to Theodore. He jerked the smaller tom's chin up with his paw, forcing him to look the thug in the eyes. "Let me guess. You're Spots, right? Spots and Specs, 'ave you ever seen a more pathetic pair?"

More chuckles went around, and Rudy released him with a snort. "We haven't seen your Specs, I'm afraid. Not since she was 'in quite a bit of trouble.'" He snorted again. "Damned shame, though. I'd _love _to catch her pretty face 'round these parts again, wouldn't you, boys?"

More ugly laughter battered his ears, and he felt something unfamiliar rising up inside of him: fury. But he quashed it, forced it down like a coward, for he knew that he stood no chance against these sorts of cats, anymore than Specs had.

"I will just be on my way, then," he said, rising to his paws. He turned his back on Rudy, only to find another tom in his path, with a sneer.

"I don't think you're goin' places, Spots," Rudy rumbled. "You look like a fine addition to the gang. Slim cat like you charms the ladies, don't he? You certainly seem in well with Specs, if she lets you call her that fancy name. We could use a cat like you."

"N-no, that's quite alright," he stammered. "I-I have…I have very important business to attend to, if you don't mind. I simply must go."

Rudy didn't seem to have heard him at all. "Let's go, boys," he ordered. "Rudy's gotta mighty hunger, and I'm tired of waiting." He looked back to Theodore. "Come on, then. Up here with me. We'll start discussing plans."

Looking back at the other unfriendly faces, he realized he had no choice. Ears pinned against his head, eyes cast downwards, he obediently fell into step beside the swaggering tom as he and his "boys" pushed through the forest.

Rudy went on and on about things he didn't quite understand - something about luring, something about manipulating – but he wasn't truly listening. He was keeping his eyes peeled for some way out, for some gap in the crowd that he could use to dart away. But Rudy's crew surrounded him on all sides, fencing him in, making him feel desperately trapped.

They came to a stop and a few toms were dispatched to hunt. They brought back enough prey for the ground to share, and he received the honor – in the eyes of the group, at least – of splitting a rabbit with Rudy. He ate as little as he could, trying to force back his disgust as the blue-eyed tom prattled on. He nodded when 'Spots' was mentioned, murmured his assent when he felt he should, but tried to block out the tom's words as best he could.

Night fell all too slowly over their heads, and one by one, the toms dropped into contented slumber. Rudy was the last to go, but when he finally let out a sleepy snort and his head fell between his paws, Theodore finally dared to rise and slink away.

He raced back to the den as quickly as he could, paws flying over the earth, feeling his heart pound in his ears. Speckledown had to be back, she _had _to be, and when he caught her fresh scent as he neared their home, he almost cried out loud with relief.

He burst into the den, eyes wide, only to skid to a stop as he found her sitting, waiting, fiddling with the jay's feather between her paws.

"I told you," she meowed, her voice icier than he had ever heard it.

"Told me what?" he asked, confused. "Are you alright? Nothing happened, did it? I was looking everywhere for you, I was so worried about—"

"I just needed some space. But you were really worried about me, weren't you?" Something in her voice twisted, and for a moment he saw broken glass in her eyes, like a shattered window that could no longer hold back the storm. "I saw you with them, Teddy. Or should I say _Spots?_"

He went rigid. "I-it wasn't…I wasn't _with _them, I was just…."

"I told you to stay away from them!" Her voice lashed at him like sleet, and he flinched. "I told you they were bad news, I told you...but you're their pal now, aren't you? You're their best friend, after what they did to…."

He swallowed. He could explain this. He could make it up to her, if she would give him a chance, as she had made him give the forest another look. "Please, Speckledown—"

"Don't call me that!" she snarled. "Don't call me _anything, _do you understand?" She pushed the jay's feather aside, her eyes blazing, and he quailed before her.

"Speckle—" he caught himself, paused, and tried to start again. "Please, let me explain. It was all a misunderstanding, I swear to you. I was doing my best to stay away from Rudy, I was, I only—"

"Save it." Lightning flashed in her eyes as she rose to her paws. Before he could stop her, she pushed past him, into the gloom of the night.

"Wait! Please, wait!" he moved to rush after her, and she faced him again.

"Please, Speckledown, just wait. Let me explain. Let me…." His eyes found the feather, and the words began spilling out of his mouth faster than he could control them. "When you smile, I feel so…and your voice is better than birdsong, and I wish it was colder…your eyes are so…and this is the sky!" He grabbed the feather, pushing it towards her. For once words failed him; no matter how he scrambled for them, they fluttered just out of his paws, and all the while she was staring at him like he was some sort of mad, raving beast – which, he supposed, he was.

"I thought I knew you," she hissed, "but I guess I was the one who should have looked again. Should have looked deeper. Goodbye, _Spots._"

His heart pounded furiously in his ears and panic threatened to choke him as he looked into her eyes, the eyes he thought he had known so well. She wasn't lying, wasn't kidding, she was _leaving, _leaving him all alone.

"I love you," he tried to say, but the words fell from his tongue to the earth without ever reaching her ears. He tried again, and he thought she heard this time, but she was still staring at him as though he was a stranger in her midst.

"I don't want to ever see you again," was all she said, before she wheeled around. It only took a few bounds for her to disappear, for her brown-and-white pelt to be swallowed up by the darkness. And he tried running after her, he gave it his all, but she was too fast, and finally he was alone with nothing but himself and the forest and the tangible taste of regret.

**AN: In rp we've seen that Spotty really has no idea what went down here. He blames himself, thinking that it had something to do with his feelings for her – that his confession was the real key, that she would have stayed if he hadn't tried to bind her even further. He's not the kind of cat that could really understand what happened, what Rudy did – again, it's out of his area of experience. Even the aristocats that he knew didn't venture into that sort of thing.**

**And he wears his name as a badge of shame. :c**


	35. 34 Brief

**AN: Entry no. 5. Revengeance for your Morn/Light thing, Shim? Or a desperate attempt to reach Either Or? Who knows?**

**(If it is revenge, it's very poor, because it's more of a reflective piece than anything.)**

**34. Brief**

She could swear she sees him sometimes in the mornings, when she's drifting in that place between consciousness and sleeping. It's not much, just the faintest golden flicker in the weak dawn light, but it's enough to give her comfort. She hears him sometimes too, on the edges of her dreams, whispering sweet nothings in her ears just as he had in life.

She knows it's stupid, and false, and way too good to be true. She knows he's in StarClan now, probably surrounded by a dozen other she-cats – she never could understand why no one else had ever given him a second glance – and enjoying himself. Or, at least, that was what she hoped, when she was not grappling with jealousy. If there was any cat in the world that she could think of who deserved to be happy, it was him. And she knew that no one could ever truly, honestly, simply be happy with her.

It was easy to pretend otherwise, of course. Easy to disregard the fact that no other tom besides him had ever given her the time of day. Easy to forget the stares she received as soon as she opened her mouth. Easy to pretend that she had truly felt loved before he had taken to curling around her, as if she was some precious trinket. She did so every day. She put on that I-don't-give-a-rat's-ass mask, the look-how-fabulous-I-am facade, but that's all it was. An act. An illusion. A hoax.

No one had ever talked to her like he had – so gently, so _kindly. _No one had ever acted like she belonged on a pedestal, like she was worth looking up to instead of away from. No one had ever been so pleased just to spend time with her, so eager to listen as she prattled on and on about silly, meaningless things. No one had ever _loved _her like that, and she had taken it all for granted until it was too late.

She had waited all her life for a love that came and went in an instant.

Some part of her wanted to believe that was alright. That's how it happened in the great love stories, after all. A whirlwind romance, a tragic death, eternal mourning. But theirs had not been a torrid affair; it had been placid, as still as an untouched pool, but so deep she felt it to her very bones. And while his death had been tragic, it had hardly been that extraordinary; he had not died fighting any great foe, nor had he thrown himself into harm's way for his love. No, his death had been quiet and unassuming, just like he had always been. And the Clan had forgotten and moved on while she was still clutching at the pieces.

So it was not okay. No, it was more than that. Just the thought of StarClan sitting up in the sky, watching her on their high horse, made her furious. It made every hair on her pelt tingle with rage, it made her want to screech and yowl and shout until they brought him back – after all, was Cedarwhisker really so much greater than he? Why did he deserve to come back, while the tom that had captured her heart with the quietest of words remained cold and in the ground? – and admitted their mistake. It made her want to run off into the forest, to be swallowed up by the roots and mud, so that she could claw her way up into the sky and bring him back herself.

But she couldn't. She had an obligation to the little beings in her belly. It was her duty – that was how he had said it, as if it was a chore to be accomplished! – to stand by her kits, to raise them in her mate's stead, to teach them of his legacy. And she would do so, because raising kits had always been part of her dream, but never had she thought she would do it alone. And she would not so do without complaint.

But how did you explain a cat like Lightningstripe in words? How could you capture that honeyed tone in his eyes, the way his voice had the ability to caress your name and make you feel as though you had swallowed a star? How did you explain that underlying patience, that eternal selflessness? How could you put into mere expressions his very nature, his being, his core? It was an impossible task, and she knew it. Impossible and frustrating and beautiful, but she would do her best anyway, because she would not – would _not _– let him be forgotten. Her kits would be the best, the very best, even if she was raising them by herself. The entire Clan would know and honor them by the time she was through, and then perhaps she could believe that he was at peace.

Sometimes she caught herself wondering about what he was doing, what he was thinking. He had always been able to sense that in her somehow, but she had never been as good at it. He had always bounced her questions back at her, probed her for what she felt and wanted and treasured, rather than giving up himself, because _she _had always been the focus. Now she wanted to question him more than anything.

_What's your favorite prey? Your favorite time of day? Your favorite names for kits? Would you have done it differently, if you'd known we would be parents? Why did you put up with me? Are you missing me as much as I'm missing you? Why didn't you _stay? _Did I drive you away? Was it my fault? Could you think of no other way to escape but to slowly waste to nothing? When I go off to StarClan, am I going to find you alone? Or will you have everything you deserve, and have forgotten all about me?_

But that was too painful – far, far too painful – to even consider, and so she would try to imagine him as he had been – before the famine, before the possibility of mortality had even entered their minds – and not with stars in his pelt. He'd fit right in with those wise cats, those far-seers, those silent sentinels, but she was afraid that was the problem, that by the time she went on to join him, she would not know who he was.

_Dead cats don't change, _she would tell herself. _It's you that will change. Your going to be a mother, you're going to be all alone, you're going to have to go on without him…you're going to be bitter and angry and cruel and so sour and shrunken that when you do finally claw your way into the stars, if you make it there at all, you'll be nothing but a shell of who he loved. _

It had all been too short. Too impossibly, beautifully, breath-takingly short. One moment they hardly knew each other, the next they were mates, and then he was gone. There had never been enough starry evenings, quiet meals, whispered plans of the future. There had never been enough walks in the forest, soothing naps, shared nights. She knew there never could be enough of those things, not for her, but she still felt impossibly cheated when she looked back on what they had, and what could have been. It had seemed like Lightningstripe could have gone on loving her forever and ever, but now they would never know, now she could never see if they would withstand the test of time because it had already failed them. He was gone, he was never coming back, and things would never be the same.

But that was just how it went, or so it seemed. She could not think of any pair not before her time that had succeeded for very long. The famine had torn the Clan apart, ripped it to shreds, and Lightningstripe had been only one of many lost to leafbare's frigid touch. He was just another name on the list, perfectly unremarkable to any cat but her. There was no such thing as perfect love, she knew that now, because if there was then StarClan would take the first opportunity to quash it. They were jealous, she had decided, angry about their own fates and willing to take it out on those that came next. And when it was her time, she would be more than happy to do the same, to make others suffer as she had. That was the only explanation she could think of that made sense, the only thing that could place any semblance of sanity on the callous slaying of cats right and left by their starry ancestors.

All this and more was spinning around her head all the time, a wild tempest born of golden fur and an easy smile. She couldn't stop it, couldn't control it; it was just another part of her ruined fairytale, her shattered dream. Something she would have to learn to live with, until she finally stopped drawing breath. Whether he knew it or not, Lightningstripe would always be on her mind.

She shifted her weight, reaching down to caress her stomach with her tongue, feeling the little lives inside of her move and reach out with tiny paws.

_Lightningkit, _she thought, remembering that excursion to the forest, that bright bubble of excitement and joy that she had never thought would burst. She had suggested that name, she was pretty sure – Lightningkit junior. It had seemed silly at the time, more a joke born out of incredulity than anything, but now….

_He wouldn't be Lightningkit junior now, _she reminded herself, _just Lightningkit. Plain old heartbreaking Lightningkit. _

She glanced towards the den as the thoughts spun through her mind, and thought she saw the faintest flicker of gold in the entrance to the nursery, the ghost of a smile and gentle eyes.

**AN: Rubbish, but y'know. Need to get my butt movin on this thing. :3**


	36. 35 Space

**AN: Another part of the TC challenge. I'm on a roll! This one is for Shady, who gave me the idea (although she said it might work as a later chapter, eheh). This is just a hypothetical Hail/Thicket meet-up (by the way, check out Shadesaurus, cause she's amazing).**

**Sorry for spamming you bros with one-shots lately, I just have to reach Either Or soon, since it will be extremely important for some rp stuff that is gonna go down. It'll all be over soon, ssssh.**

**Small background info: Born with OCD, was pretty minor, but a traumatic event (an attack by a rogue that almost killed him and cost him an eye) left him with some big touch/cleanliness issues.**

**35. Space**

His chest was tight, his breathing pained, but he couldn't stop running. He dashed up the slope as quickly as he could, ignoring the rocks that slid underneath his paws, ignoring the prickles of pain running through his pads. He couldn't stand being in camp, underneath those watchful, accusing eyes. He couldn't breathe there, could barely move, with so many cats all around him.

He'd done it again, messed up. It had just been a simple bump, just a brushing of the shoulders as Morninglight passed him on his blind side but of course it had set him off. He'd spun around and nearly knocked her over with his own shoulder; even now, it ached. Morninglight had exploded, of course; he could still see her furious green eyes seared into his mind, her harsh words battering his ears. She'd called him a freak, a monster, a violent little beast. He knew she wasn't exactly in her right mind, knew that she was still unhinged from Lightningstripe's death, but it didn't matter. She had a point; what sort of cat attacked his own Clanmates almost without provocation? What sort of cat couldn't control himself from hurting everyone that came near him?

_I just need room to breathe, _he thought, repeating it over and over again in his mind as he ran. _Just room to breathe._

Eventually his paws gave out, and he slumped to the ground, feeling the sharp rocks prickling against his stomach. His pads began to burn, and when he turned over his paw, he saw they had been rubbed raw. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see the speckles of blood that he had left behind on his mad dash. The smell of blood rose into his nose, making his stomach churn, and he tried to stop himself from retching.

He couldn't let the blood stay on his paws. It was filthy, disgusting, _wrong _to him in a way that most other cats did not seem to understand. He had seen warriors come home from a battle covered in the stuff, and could feel nothing but repulsed. It was just another thing that set him apart, another thing that made him look like a freak to his Clanmates.

He heaved himself to his feet again, ignoring the burning sensation of raw flesh against the stones. He had to find something to wash off in, before the smell of blood overwhelmed him entirely. He couldn't go back to the forest – not yet – so there was nowhere for him to head but up.

It didn't take long for the sounds of rushing water to reach his ears, and his single eager eye quickly found the source; an icy creek running down the mountain. He hurried towards it, eager to dip his paws into the river and numb them, to sweep the blood and grime away and feel clean again, if only for a moment.

The water sent an icy shock down his spine, and he flinched, but did not pull away as the water rushed over his white paws. He could _feel _cleanliness returning, could feel himself begin to relax and breathe normally again as the danger of filthiness and disease passed. He rubbed his paws against the smoother creek stones, ignoring the slight pain that flashed up his almost-numb forelegs, only intent on easing away the dirt.

It wasn't until the ribbons of red wafting from his paws finally disappeared that he allowed himself to pull them out. They tingled immediately in the chilly air, and he shivered as needles began prickling them, but he was satisfied to see clean pinkness on the bottoms of his pads. They would begin bleeding again as soon as he started walking, of course, but he felt calmer now, firmer, well enough to make the journey home. They would put cobwebs and marigold on his paws, binding them up too tightly for him to see, and they would heal. Everything would be fine.

As if on cue, Morninglight's face flashed again in his mind, and he winced. She had probably explained her plight to half the Clan by now; he just thanked StarClan that his mother had not been in camp while the golden queen had chewed him out. Shimmertail and Morninglight had some sort of bad blood between them that he did not understand, and it was not wise to cross the silver deputy, especially when it concerned her son.

She still saw him as a kit, he thought sometimes, a tiny, innocent thing that needed protecting. Perhaps she was right – he so often did feel useless – but at the same time, he wished she wouldn't worry, wished that she didn't _have _to. His ears flattened as he thought of his father and their last conversation before that horrific battle; his father had always been confident, powerful, _noble, _and once Hailpaw had thought that he could actually make him proud. But that was silly, he knew that now. How could anyone be proud of him, a cat that shied away from the smallest touch? A cat that attacked his Clanmates without reason or provocation, merely the smallest brush of their pelt against his?

He realized he was digging his claws into the ground, and he quickly plunged them into the water again before they could start to ache once more. He just had to get home to his nest, just had to be able to curl up and sleep it off. He always felt better after a good nap. Perhaps things would not feel so dark and cramped and devoid of space to breathe then.

At that moment, he chose to look up. He wasn't sure why – even afterwards, thinking back, he had no idea what had caused his head to rise at precisely the moment that something higher up on the mountain shifted. Perhaps it was fate, perhaps it was happy coincidence, but just when his single eye drew upwards, a strange shape moved slightly to the left, attempting to hide behind a boulder. He blinked, confused; it took him a moment to place the gray shape – splattered with soft ginger, how odd – as a cat.

It was the green eyes that gave her away, really, twinkling at him just over the top of the boulder. As soon as she realized she'd been spotted, she ducked back down, disappearing completely from sight. He blinked, and wondered if she had actually been there at all, or if he was only imagining it.

"Hello?" he called, voice thin and weak compared to the craggy mountain and rough rock. "Is someone there?"

The shape behind the boulder peered out at him again, eyes glittering with alarm, and before he could even think to protest, turned and dashed away, up and up and up until her coat hid her from sight completely.

He rose to chase after her, but of course the creek was in the way, cutting a blue ribbon between the two of them.

"Wait!" he exclaimed, but the mountain swallowed his words, and his single eye could not make her out at all.

His ears flattened, and he looked back into the water, seeing his twisted reflection in the swirling waters. He looked terrifying, didn't he, with his scarred face and milky eye. Not the sort of cat that anyone would want to approach.

_And she doesn't even know how dangerous I am. _A mixture of anger and loneliness prickled his pelt, and he tore himself away from his reflection, staggering down the mountainside on numbed paws. He didn't think to look back, didn't consider that she might have dared creep after him, until he heard the faintest strike of stone on stone. He turned, and saw them again, those bright green eyes, although she again tried to duck and hide. She'd crept back down while he had stumbled, as nimble on the cliff-side as a snow leopard, almost to the edge of the creek.

This time he didn't try speaking, not wanting to scare her away again. And what would be the point? Even if they got to talking, even if she decided that a Clan cat might not be so bad after all, eventually she would accidentally touch him – her tail against his flank, her paw brushing over his, maybe even leaning on him as the rock shifted under their paws – and he would snap, and she would run, hate him as they all did. He didn't want to think about it, didn't want to be let down again, and so he merely continued walking.

The clattering of stone followed him all the way down. There was a brief lull when she had to run downstream to find an easier place to cross the creek, but it started up again right after. It was slight, barely noticeable, but he had always been paranoid and alert to every sound. And every time, he would stop and look back, and see her glittering eyes half a second before they disappeared. Every time, she was the smallest bit closer, closing the distance between them, and he unwillingly began wondering what it might be light if she closed the space all the way.

The bottom of the mountain came all too soon, however, and it was clear from the way she regarded the forest – with wide, glistening eyes full of curiosity, but also fear – that she would not set paw there. She ducked back when he turned to look, disappearing once more against the gray stone, and although he willed for her to poke her head back up, she did not.

"Hello," he said again, more softly this time. Perhaps it was the gentle tone of his voice, or the note of hope in it. Perhaps it was the way he held himself, pressing inwards rather than trying to force himself outwards, as so many of the braver toms did. Perhaps it was because he both looked and sounded helpless, pathetic, and small, certainly no threat to a well-seasoned mountain cat. Whatever the reason, her head slowly rose again, until her nose barely poked out over the rock she was crouching behind.

"My name's Hailpaw," he meowed. "It's okay if you don't tell me yours, and it's okay if you're scared. You should be. Lots of cats are scared of me. But…do you think we could be friends, maybe? You can keep your distance, I don't mind. It's probably better that way. But I'll be here tomorrow, okay? This exact spot, this exact time. Whether or not you come is up to you, but…I'd like if it you did."

She didn't say anything, – he didn't know it just yet, but she wouldn't say anything for moons and moons, until that sudden confession came – only watched him with those strange mountain eyes. Then, her head bobbed, in a movement that might have been a nod or might have only been another duck so she could hide again. He didn't wait to see if she came back up, choosing instead to turn away and pretend that she had.

He walked back to camp as he always did, with careful precision and the goal of staying as clean as possible, but his mind was buzzing with possibilities, with whispered conversations and secret meetings and a cat that wouldn't know any of his flaws, just the side that was safe to see, a cat that wouldn't have to be scared of him at all. And he found that, for once, there was a space he wanted to close.


	37. 36 Special

**AN: Yet another TC entry, this time of our charming darling, Brand. Always so delicate, so tasteful, so **_**refined. **_**(/blatant lies)**

**For non TC-ers wondering when the deluge will be over (sorry, bros!), the last (planned) TC piece is Either Or. Hopefully then I can get some other characters mixed in? Although, I do have a good idea for a TC-one-shot for "Tell Me a Story..."**

**36. Special**

Most big boss families had small litters. It sounded strange to outsiders, but it was simply a matter of practicality. Too many kits, and they would start to fight amongst themselves, each vying for a piece of the empire they felt they were entitled to. The ideal number was one: one heir, one future ruler, one kit to dote on and train and raise into the perfect leader. Two was just fine; one to be the ruler, one to be the back-up, the _just-in-case-the-first-doesn't-work-out-or-is-hit-by-a-truck-or-something. _

Her family had three.

Three was a bad number. Three was frowned upon. With three, you had your ruler, your back-up, and…the trash. The forgotten. The _what's-her-name-again? _

She was that third kit.

If her family knew what a "black sheep" was, that would have been the name she was pinned with. Instead, she didn't have a nickname at all. She was just sort of _there, _that little ember that could show some promise if only someone would fan it, but was instead ignored for the fires already roaring.

It wasn't so much that there was something _wrong _with her. At least, she didn't see it that way. No, there was just something about the other two that made her unimportant.

Blaze had always been at the forefront. As the only tom, he was the natural leader. He was healthy, well-built, strong. He had his father's fiery coat, the perfect symbol for the powerful ruler he would become. He stood out without even trying. He stood out even when he tried _not _to.

Comet was another case. She had been sickly as a kit, weakly, and had been smothered in attention trying to make her stronger. Or, that was what Brand told herself. It didn't make sense by traditional standards – if that was the case, Brand should have been the back-up-kit, not Comet – but she couldn't personally see any other explanation. Nor did she see the way Comet too was passed over in favor of Blaze, how she too was ignored until she started coming up with the prophecies. Oh, the _prophecies. _Just an inkling, just a downcast look or a rainy cloud over their heads, and suddenly Comet was bubbling with predictions. _It's going to be a bad day. Stay away from the color blue. Make sure to look up! Hidden secrets can be found if you look. _On and on, over and over, the same things rehashed repeatedly until they all ran together, until Brand had no idea what to look for and what to ignore. It all seemed of _some _interest to Comet.

And, of course, the family ate it up. They kept Comet close, kept her secret well-hidden, for a cat with such foresight with such a _gift _as their mother crooned, had to be protected. She would go far, they were certain. _She _had a future ahead of her.

Brand wasn't a tom. Her coat was ginger, but it was pale, lacking her brother's vibrancy. She didn't have her sister's odd-eyes, didn't feel like making up prophecies for sport. She had a sharp tongue and sharp eyes and a temper to match and the desire to become great, to become _something, _but she was the third kit and no one ever saw it. No one took the time to say "_Golly gee, how is Brand this morning? Wonder what she wants to be when she grows up?" _ No, that never happened. It was always,_ "Blaze, let's go hunting. Blaze, let me teach you this trick and that one. Blaze, this is how to lead. Comet, what are the predictions for today? Comet, what do you have a feeling about? Comet, you must stay beside you brother, lead him to greatness."_

And, worst of all, _"Brand? Brand who?"_

It wasn't as bad when they were younger. Then she could keep the dream alive, could pretend that someday she would have her time in the spotlight, that she wouldn't always be pushed to one side. But then Blaze began rejecting his position as leader, and their father had to work all the harder to convince him of his place. And Comet started bubbling up with her prophecies, until she had her parents hanging onto her every word. And Brand learned how to hunt by watching and learned how to fight by scrapping with the street scum and learned how to be smart and cunning and sharp, how to dodge trouble and weasel out support, how to coo to toms until they'd do whatever you asked. All of that and more she learned, but none of it was enough, none of it was _ever _enough.

And then, came Jackal. She had been so excited at first, so filled with triumph: a servant, for her very own. A cat she could control, order about as much as she wanted. A cat that _couldn't _ignore her, had to hang on her every word. A cat that would never ever leave her side. She named him Jackal because it sounded fierce, because it was a word that hovered on the streets to describe someone particularly brutal, someone that _stood out. _That would be them, she was certain of it. They'd set the city on fire, earn her parents' respect, and claim the throne.

But Jackal was flawed. He was slow sometimes a bit dull. Other times he was too fast, reacting with a hot temper to any perceived threat. Striking first and waiting for orders later, that was a problem of his, in the beginning. It grated on her, until she finally exploded at him, shouted him down until he quivered before her. _That _was the first spark, the first of many. The second was when she confronted her father, demanded to know why she had such a faulty product. His reply had shaken her, shocked her to the core.

_We don't know anything about servants. We thought you could handle him, so we could see if Blaze might want one._

That was what he said. But what he meant was, _You're expendable. If Jackal turns out to be a monster, if he goes rogue or explodes, we still have our ruler. We still have our back-up. We just lose the extra. _

That was what had sealed the deal. That was what had pointed her in the right direction, told her what had to occur. That was what had sealed her family's fate. Brand would set the city on fire, all right, and she'd make sure her family was the first to burn.

. . .

She prodded her sister with one paw; sharply at first, then even more so when she received no reaction. Slowly those eyes opened – one blue, one green, as if she needed anything to make her any more _special _–and focused. A sleepy smile came over her sister's face, and Brand wanted to vomit. Somehow she restrained herself, smiling back.

"Top of the morning," she purred, slathering her voice with honey – she was very good at that these days, not that anyone ever noticed. "I thought we'd go hunting together, before everyone else is up."

Her sister blinked once, twice – so stupid, so placid, so damn _infuriating_ – then frowned. "I don't know, Brandy. I had a bad dream the night before. A cloud covered the moon. You know what that means—"

_It means "I'm too lazy to get off my tail and do something, I just want to sit around like a fat piece of dung."_

She flicked her tail against her sister's white muzzle. "Yeah, yeah, moon stuff. Bad omen. Whatever. _I _think it's going to be a really great day, but we'll never know for sure unless we get moving!"

The white she-cat mulled it over for a moment, before nodding. "I suppose you're right. We'll just have to stay away from anything green today, won't we?" She cocked her head to the side, thinking to herself. "I think you're correct, Brandy. It'll be a good day for you." She beamed up at her sister, and Brand pasted on a smile, before flicking her tail.

"Let's get moving!"

Comet sat up, before frowning at the hulking black figure hovering just behind Brand. "Does he have to come?"

Brand glanced at her servant, looking him over, then shook her head. She wouldn't need him; they wouldn't be gone long, and she didn't want him talking afterwards. "No. He can stay here. Watch my nest or something."

With that, she trotted out of their home, Comet on her heels, heading into the wide-open city, brimming with possibilities that one of them would never fully see.

"Isn't this nice?" Comet purred as they went along. "Just like when Daddy used to take us hunting, do you remember? Right before dawn, when things are so quiet and beautiful…."

Brand swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth. "No. I don't remember." _Because Pop never took _me, _you twit, you self-absorbed, nitwit. You piece of street-slime, you rat's anus….He never thought to take _me _out when the world was beautiful. _

"Really? I could tell you about it—"

"I'm alright." There was more venom in her voice than she'd intended, and she forced it back, not wanting to lose her fish before the fun even got started. "Let's just keep walking."

"Where should we go?" Comet asked. "West feels good at the moment—"

"Let's go East."

Her sister chuckled. "Always so contrary, you silly thing. Can't you just go with the flow, for once?"

"Pop never went with the flow, and he's on top now."

She laughed again. "Pop? You're so silly. You can call him Daddy, you know. He likes that."

_He doesn't like anything I say. _

"I like 'Pop' better," was her only response. Comet paused then, peering at her with her odd eyes, concern on her face.

"Are you alright? You seem upset about something. Did Daddy – excuse me, _Pop _– do something? Was it Blaze? Was it me?"

_It was all of you, all bundled up together. But you didn't do anything, anything at all. That's the _problem, _you stupid buffoon, unable to think beyond your own nose._

But it didn't hurt to play along.

"He's just been distant, lately, you know?" She tried to inject some sorrow into her voice, and might have exceeded all too well, as something fluttered in her stomach. "Like he doesn't even care."

Comet's eyes widened. "Oh, Brandy! You know he cares. We all do!"

_Call me Brandy one more time, and I'll slit your throat right here, let you bleed out on the sidewalk._

"I don't know…." Her gaze dropped down to her paws. "Sometimes it doesn't feel like anyone sees me at all. Not even Jackal."

_Whoa, rein it in there. She doesn't need to know that. No one does. Shut your trap, before you let them see….They don't deserve it, they don't deserve to know. They can only hurt you if you let them._

"I see you," Comet purred, odd eyes twinkling. "I see everything. Do you want me to talk to them about it, though?"

She cringed immediately. Having the back-up kit talk to her father about something like this was the most embarrassing thing she could imagine. "No, it's fine. I'll figure something out."

"Okay. But I'm here for you, if you want to talk." She brushed her tail over Brand's fur, and the ginger tabby resisted the urge to push her away with both paws.

"Let's cross here," she said instead, hovering on the edge of the road. It was rather busy during the day, but in the morning, there were always fewer cars, just a couple tearing past now and then. Her eyes flicked both ways, checking for any oncoming danger.

"Oh, I don't know, Brand…this one's always dangerous. We should go farther down." Comet's ears flattened with discomfort. "Daddy always says never to cross the busy ones like this."

"Are you going to let Pop tell you what to do all the time, forever?" she snapped. "Come on, let's go."

She dashed across the road then, bright paws flying over the black tar, before she abruptly tumbled into a heap. She let out a yowl of pain, cradling her paw against her chest.

"Brand!"

Comet rushed to her side, eyes wide. "Is your paw hurt? Come on, we've got to go! Something's coming!"

Brand tried rising to her feet, only to have her injured paw buckle beneath her. "I can't do it. It hurts too much. I'll be fine, Comet. Get out of the road."

She could hear the roaring behind them, as a monster turned the bend. Bright lights dappled their fur, and her heart started beating rapidly in her chest. "Go!"

"Brandy—" Comet's eyes darted between the oncoming headlights and her sister. Finally, she grabbed Brand's scruff, tugging on it with all her might.

The road vibrated beneath their paws, the roaring grew ever louder, and Brand glanced up to see the fear in her sister's eyes. Comet gave another half-hearted tug, but she had never been the stronger of the two of them, and finally she let go, took a step back.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, looking again towards the growing lights. "I love you, Brandy, I do. I'll tell Daddy it wasn't your fault—"

Her words cut off suddenly as Brand sprang forwards with four paws that were decidedly _not _injured, wrapping her jaws around her sister's neck. She threw her to the ground where she herself had been lying the moment before, biting down as hard as she could before letting go and springing back.

"Gotcha," she meowed, eyes glowing, just as the truck roared in front of her face. The wind was enough to almost knock her off her paws, and she stumbled backwards, closing her eyes against the grit and dust. When she opened them again, it was clear that Comet would not be getting up.

_Like a shooting star, scattered all over the place, _she would think to herself later. _I should have made a wish. _

But she didn't think anything at all in that moment, just stared, hardly able to believe she had pulled it off. She looked for the truck – a green truck, how strange – but it had already disappeared, chugging on without a thought. In the end, Comet had been just as forgettable as anything else caught underneath the monster's wheels.

She shook herself, then, and ran back to where they had came, back to safety. She had to get home, to tell her family about what had happened. It had just been an accident, that was what she would say. Comet hadn't been looking where she was going, hadn't seen the danger, and _splat. _All over in the blink of an eye. Nothing she could do. They'd blame her for awhile, certainly, but they were down to two kits now, and whether they liked it or not, _she _was the back-up kit. For now.

"And then there were two," she murmured to herself, and a small smile flickered on her muzzle as she turned away from the mess she'd created, trotting back home with more plans buzzing in her mind.

**AN: How much was reality, and how much was subtext she created in her head? Did Comet see the future, or was it just coincidence? Would Bran have still done it if Comet hadn't failed her "test" and been abotut to abandon her to save herself? Ambiguity runs in the family, I guess.**

**On Comet's wiki page (yes, TC has a wiki), there's a quote by Brand about Comet that used to be a kind-of-in joke ("Whether or not she really did see the future, she sure didn't see that truck coming!") That's obvs a lie now, but will it make a triumphant return? We shall seeee.**


	38. 37 Jinx

**AN: Chilled should be back to regular updates once these one-shots are done, k. Just got a deadline to meet here. **

**This one took awhile to think of, but I'm interested in seeing where it goes. Still TC, obvs, set in the future just like the last one, when they're in the mountains, among other things. Just figured we might have a chapter that's a *****bit* lighter, since the others have been fairly sad/dark.**

**37. Jinx**

"What's this?"

"Those are poppyseeds."

_I've said that twice now, I'm pretty sure._

"What's this?"

"Those are cobwebs."

_And told him that once before._

"What's this?"

A brief, restrained sigh. Then, "That's borage."

_How did Snowheart ever put up with me? How did he stand having a kit watch him all the time? Granted, I don't think I was _quite _this bothersome, or so persistent, but…._

"What's this?"

She finally turned back to the little kit, who gazed up at her with blue eyes round with innocence, bright against his golden-brown fur. He fidgeted underneath her gaze, and finally his eyes slipped away from hers, darting all over the den before he found something new to interesting him.

"What's this?" he asked, pointing to a clump of flowers.

"Wrenkit," she meowed, trying to keep her voice gentle and calm despite her growing irritation, "you don't really want to be stuck in a smelly den all day, do you? Why don't you try and find your siblings, maybe play a game with them?"

He listened to her question solemnly, and seemed to mull it over, before turning around and squishing a plump berry with his paw. "What's this?"

This time, she couldn't quite hold the sigh back. She had known it wouldn't work, of course – mere suggestion seemed to have no affect on the little tom. But what else was she to do? It wasn't as though she could report the little bug to Smokestar or Shimmertail, when they had so much to do. Nor could she really bother Copperblaze or Larkflight; Larkflight was probably exhausted already with the other three kits, and Copperblaze had been working hard lately as well. And she certainly couldn't chastise the kit herself, for she wasn't entirely certain she could do so without unleashing a bit of venom, and that simply wasn't her place. Medicine cats were supposed to nurture the next generation, to work for them and guide them along the way when they were troubled, and never ask for a thing in return. Once, she thought that would be easy, but that felt like forever ago now.

While these thoughts flickered in her mind, the kit had already moved on, walking somewhat unsteadily towards her meager store of marigold, which he then began tossing in all directions, a devilish gleam in his bright eyes.

_There's got to be something I can do, _she thought, feeling rather hapless as he threw the golden petals into the air. _Some sort of trick, something just to get me a bit of peace…._

He looked back at her, and she knew what he was going to say before the words even left his tiny mouth.

"What's this?" they asked together in the same instant, and immediately she pounced on the opportunity.

"Jinx!" she declared, tossing out the word she'd heard Morninglight's litter throw out from time to time. Lightningkit had been a frail thing, and he'd been forced to spend many a day in her den.

Wrenkit blinked up at her, clearly nonplussed. "Jinx?" he echoed, and she bopped him on the nose – not enough to hurt, just enough to make his eyes almost cross with confusion.

"No talking," she meowed, trying to sound firm. "That's one of the rules of jinx. You can't speak until I unjinx you, do you understand?"

"No," he began, and her paw tapped his nose again. He let out an indignant squeak, backing up a few paces and giving his nose an irritated twitch.

"No talking," she repeated. "It's a game, you see? We said the same thing at the same time at the same time, so you are jinxed, and you mustn't make a peep until I say you can. And the only way for that to happen is for you to make yourself useful."

The kit seemed to consider it, before his eyes were irresistibly drawn back to the herbs. She had no doubt that he had not even considered becoming a medicine cat; he would walk the path of a warrior, just as his parents had. He had that warrior's spark, that sort of energetic glow and patriotic fever that so many of them seemed to hold, rather than the gentle serenity medicine cats were supposed to channel. Still, the medicine den was a curiosity to him, and one that he wanted to explore. She doubted Larkflight wanted all four kits on her paws again, so if she could distract Wrenkit while making him useful at the same time, it would be a victory for everyone.

"You can start by helping me clean up this mess." She indicated the scattered marigold petals with her tail. He seemed baleful, but only nodded, shuffling back to the herbs with a glance in her direction, as if testing whether he would be 'punished' again for speaking.

"Don't even think about it," she warned, and he crinkled his nose at her, before clumsily shuffling the marigold leaves back into some semblance of a pile. She did the same, picking out the individual petals while he focused more on the clumps, and for a moment, she found herself able to relax. She clung to these moments of solitude nowadays, these quiet moments of peace where there were no wailing kits demanding her attention, no apprentices with thorns in their paws, no warriors covered in heavy gashes from skirmishes with one rogue or another.

It hadn't always been that way, of course. Once, she had been a chatterer. Once, she'd had Snowheart to talk to whenever she'd liked, to ask for advice or tell a little story of something she'd seen, but he was gone now, long gone, hovering up there in StarClan with so many other cats she'd known growing up.

Now that old desire to talk was gone, that old curiosity crushed, that old bubbliness diminished, crushed by moons of worry and toil and heartache. Crushed by _him, _the cat she had loved so fiercely it felt as though her heart would burst from ecstasy at times, right up until he had revealed the truth, that he was nothing more than a murderer. And then, during the battle, he had confused her even further by saving her life.

She would never admit it to anyone – not even herself – but sometimes, in the morning, halfway between sleep and consciousness, she would imagine that he was by her side, having just finished one story or another, and that they were merely relaxing in the heartbeat between breaths. And she thought of him saying her name in that soft, caressing tone, and just like that the illusion would shatter and she would wake up, because he did not know her name, not anymore. She was Shadyfern, not Shadypaw, and he had no idea, if he was even still alive. If he even still cared.

She shook herself, realizing she had drifted off – that happened often too, when there was no one to talk to or demand her attention – and she looked down to find that Wrenkit had done a rather fine job of gathering the marigold together, and was looking up at her with bright expectations gleaming in his blue eyes.

"Oh," she said, looking for some other task to give him, glancing over the piles of herbs before finding the store of plants used for traveling. She would need a packet soon, during the halfmoon, and might as well prepare one.

"Here, you can help me with this. I need some of this, and those, and…um, those." She pointed at the herbs as she spoke, not bothering to name them, as he would only forget.

He fetched them attentively, and watched her begin taking bits and pieces to gather together in a broad leaf – it would be easier to carry – but she could tell his attention was wandering again. She tried to think of something else to occupy him, but didn't much feel like playing any sort of game, and there were few herbs to organize left. What was it that cats did, to entertain each other?

_Tell stories, _she thought, and her heart sank into her paws then, like a leaden stone. That still happened sometimes too, when his eyes would burst into her mind unexpectedly - shining like twin flames, like new stars – or when she thought she caught the faintest scent of him on the breeze. It was just madness, figments of her imagination, but every time her heart dropped and a shiver ran through her pelt, one of mixed yearning and fear.

Several stories drifted into her mind then, each more painful than the last, and she screwed her eyes shut, trying to block them out. A tremor ran through her legs - something that she usually only allowed when she was alone, but couldn't quite hold it back at that moment – and she heard Wrenkit let out a curious squeak.

That was enough to force the memories back, if only for the moment. She had a duty, and obligation; that was what had tethered her to the Clan in the first place, what had forced her to tear herself away from him despite the pain in his eyes, so stark against the snow. She was the medicine cat, she was the spiritual pillar for them, and she could never show them how broken their pillar truly was.

"How about a story?" she asked, trying to keep her voice light, airy. "You've heard about the kit raid, haven't you?"

Wrenkit's blue eyes lit up like twin beacons, and she felt another pang, but pushed it back for the time being. He shook his head, and she pasted on a smile.

"Well, you see, when your mother was nothing more than a scrap of fur, and your uncle – you've heard of him, right? Jayshadow? – was her loyal sidekick, they thought it would be funny to lead a raid on the leader at the time, Wolfstar…."

She told the story of the first raid, and then the second, when little Lark-kit had become Larkflight, and she herself had been nothing more than a snot-nosed kit. Wrenkit was rapt, drinking in every detail for once, but she herself was adrift in a sea of memories, back when her biggest worry had been not being picked as Snowheart's apprentice, back when the idea of _love _had never even touched her thoughts, back when death and betrayal were abstract concepts with no real place in her world.

When she finished and was jerked back to reality, she saw that it was later than she had expected; the light steaming into the den was the dying sunset, not bright sunhigh. She looked over the den once more, making sure that everything was in place, that there was nothing more to do, and then down at Wrenkit. Instead of being his usual fidgeting self, he was smiling up at her with kittish innocence, and even a gleam of something akin to patience. It was a sharp contrast to his usual exuberance, his constant questioning without quite waiting for the answers, and privately she thought that the jinxing had done him a bit of good.

"Okay, Wrenkit," she meowed. "You've done very well today, and I'm grateful for your help. You're unjinxed, and you may go."

She had expected him to bolt off, but instead he continued to look up at her, a touch of caution in his eyes. But there was something else too: curiosity, but of a deeper sort than the usual _What's this?_

"Why do you look that way sometimes?" he meowed, then ducked back, as if she was going to jab at his nose again.

She blinked once, twice, confused. "Look like what?"

"Sad." His expression was frank, innocent. "Momma looks that way sometimes when she thinks we're not looking. And sometimes when she thinks we're asleep, I hear her talking to someone she calls her deputy. But Shimmertail's the deputy, right?"

She swallowed them, a touch of fear prickling her pelt. If a kit could see it, wouldn't everyone else? Would they know how distracted she was at times, how distraught, how she felt as though she might collapse in on herself at any moment, without warning, like a stack of cards?

Then, to her surprise, the kit smiled. "Even then, though, you look pretty, Miss Shadyfern," he purred, and his eyes twinkled with a hint of infatuation that gave her a jolt of surprise. "You're pretty and smart and the Clan likes you. You don't have anything to be sad about, do you?"

It was easy for him, simple; in his world, so long as she was pretty and smart and liked by the Clan, nothing could be wrong. He had no inkling of grief or misery or heartbreak, and she found herself hoping that the little airheaded, hyperactive tom never would.

She gazed into his blue eyes, and for a moment, his golden fur was replaced with white. But even then, the eyes were the same, glowing with warmth and that infatuation, that love, although his was unformed and would eventually shift to someone more his age. And she felt her heart drop into her paws, as it always did when she thought of the tom that still held the pieces of her heart, wherever he was.

She felt it, then, on her shoulders, the moons of uncertainty and confusion and self-loathing – because she should have seen it, should have _known _that he was too perfect, too good to be true, to amazing to be _hers. _She could fear the grief that had nearly sent her spiraling out of control, the thought that she was unfit for her position and deserved to be discarded by the Clan as something broken, something that couldn't be fixed. She saw those mornings and nights, those moments of peace that she so treasured, as what they really were: a prison, a trap, a hiding place where even then she could not completely let herself go, could not completely betray her weakness.

She had been jinxed herself, somehow, for all those moons. She had been trapped like a bird in a cage, her feelings muted as though cobwebs had been wrapped around her jaws, binding them tightly. She had bottled up everything and shared nothing, and absolutely nothing would ever get better. She felt just as splintered and uncertain as she had the day she had left him, and it was her fault, because she had forced herself into silence.

But that wasn't going to happen any longer. She was going to break her vow of silence, her curse, her jinx, because she was the only one that could.

She reached down then, touching his nose gently with her own, and although the little kit backpedaled with embarrassment, she could see how pleased he was to have lured the medicine cat, the current object of his attention. He beamed up at her, and a smile – a real one, not a pasted-on illusion, a pathetic copy – graced her muzzle, brightening her green eyes for a brief instant.

"You need to go home, Wrenkit," she mewed, a small purr seeping into her voice, "but, if you like, you can come back tomorrow. I have more stories I can share, if you want to listen. I'll tell you about Oak and Ivy, two of the bravest cats you'll ever hear about – besides your parents. But you can't speak a word while I tell them, understand? Asking questions just gets in the way."

She wished she had known that, back then. Maybe instead of asking pointless questions – the who's and why's and what-will-happen-next's, she might have thought to ask the important ones, the ones that could have made a difference.

Wrenkit's eyes glowed with excitement, and he ducked his head quickly. "Yes, Miss Shadyfern. I promise, not a peep!"

She purred softly again. "Alright. Go on, now. Your mother misses you already, I'm sure. _You're _her deputy now, you understand? You have to make her proud."

The twin chips of ice set in golden fur danced as they watched her, and he dipped his head. "I will. I'll see you tomorrow, Miss Shadyfern!"

With that, he was gone, tearing out of her den like a whirlwind, just as he had entered it. She waited a moment, until she could no longer hear his excited calls to his siblings, before she let herself collapse, gave into the aching in her bones. And she began whispering it to herself, then, that old story of Ivy and Oak, the story that had really been the cause of it all. She let it wrap around her like an old friend, settling over her pelt and in her ears and on her tongue and around her heart, and for the first time in moons, she felt that flicker of peace.


	39. 38 Stop Fussing

**AN: Another Morning piece, so soon? And another really messy, unfocused, reflective piece, to boot. Sorry. D:**

**38. Stop Fussing**

"_Stop fussing," _they say to her. There are variations, of course – _leave me alone, I don't wanna, quit it _the age-old drawn-out _Momma_ - but in the end, it's all the same thing. They pout, they grimace, they stamp their tiny paws, but none of it makes any difference to her. She continues on with whatever she's doing – grooming them, stopping them from going outside, splitting them up when they fight – with her quiet reservation – that quietness that only they ever see, these days – because she _can't _stop, and never will. The fussing is all that keeps her going, these days.

_(It is her entire purpose, her state of being, and she hopes they will never see that, never see her for the weak, broken thing she is.)_

She's over them every moment of every day, positively smothering them in love, because it is everything she ever wanted as a kit. She had always wanted – or thought she wanted – a mother that was always there, always hovering to look after her and guide her along the right path, to help her become the best she could be, to show her that she was better than the rest, and that is what she became for them. They don't understand, of course. They think she is obsessive, possessive, a bit mad – and perhaps she is, perhaps those things went together. But she loves them, more fiercely than she had thought possible. Just the thought of anything happening to them is enough to make her heart pound, to start the blood roaring in her ears. She could tear apart heaven and earth for them, could rent the sky apart if that was what it took to keep them safe.

_(Whether she quite knows it or not, even the slightest threat against her kits, her precious ones, turns her into a fierce tigress, ready to rip any enemy into shreds, ready to carry her kits to the end of the earth to protect them, ready to roar and bellow so loudly that everyone will take notice and steer clear.)_

Sometimes, though, she knows she has gone too far. Sometimes, they step out of line – Lionkit might be swaggering up to one of the other kits, bragging and asking for trouble, or Lightkit might be talking to cats beneath her station, or Lightningkit is heading for the den entrance with his usual clumsy cheer – and she pounces. She tears into them with words, frantic in her love, reduces them to a quivering puddle of fright and shame. She berates them for making her worry, for going where they shouldn't, for not following all the rules she had so meticulously laid out as she struggled to craft the perfect, safe world for them, a world of round edges and soft colors. Their legs tremble, their eyes fill up with hurt, and instantly her anger vanishes. Immediately, _she is_ filled with that fright – the fear of losing them, not to some shadowy force or death itself, but by them leaving her, as everyone always did – and that shame – they do not deserve her wrath, as innocent and perfect as they are – and she scoops them up and consoles them and tells them she doesn't meant it, could never mean it, over and over and over until she had them both believing it.

_(But sometimes, she does mean it, if only for a second, and it only makes her hate herself that much more.)_

She's plagued by nightmares almost constantly. They vary – a fire, a flood, huge slavering jaws poised to devour her precious ones – but they all terrify her, all leave her panting when she wakes, jaws parted and eyes wild, and she's seized by that irrational fear again. She wakes them up in the middle of the night to tell them how much she loves them, how much they mean to her, her darling ones. Their response is always the same - a sleepy murmur, a smile, some bleary blink – and then they slip back off to slumber, while she remains awake, tense and half-ready to pounce at whatever danger might make itself known, until the sun bathes them in light again.

_(They do not even think to ask in the morning why she looks so tired, for that is what she has always looked like to them, and probably always will, so long as there is evil in the world, lurking on the edges, ready to tear innocent, sweet things like them apart for no reason at all.)_

She thinks of him often, her golden prince. She knows he is there now, knows he is watching, and every day she aches to ask him how she is doing, if he is proud of her, if their kits are really as perfect as she thinks, or if she is just clinging to a sinking ship. But she doesn't ask, because she knows it would only torture him, because he cannot answer, he can never answer, any more than he can reach out and touch his family, the kits he died for without ever having known it.

_(She already knows the answer anyway, that she is doing it all wrong, that she will never be good enough, and in some ways not being able to hear it is a blessing, because that would destroy what little of her truly remains.)_

Sometimes there are good days. Sometimes her kits are little angels. Sometimes they do exactly what she says and they cause no trouble and do not fight or try to figure out the world. Sometimes they simply _are, _and those are the days she treasures more than anything, the days she thinks of during all the bad ones. Those are the days she holds up as some meager evidence that she's doing alright, that she actually has some clue about all of this at all. But those days are few and far between, and most nights when she closes her eyes for the nightmares to appear, she can only think of all the mistakes she has made, every ill-chosen word and misstep.

_(Even then, it's her fault, not theirs, because they are too young to know what they are doing wrong, too young to know the sting of failure and the accompanying heaviness in one's paws and head and heart.)_

A few times, she's wondered what would happen if she disappeared. Just _poof _one day, vanishing from their lives without a trace. No body, no mess, no vigil. Just her absence. They would miss her, she knows, but for how long? How long would it take them to realize they're better off without her? How long before they forgot her face, her scent, her _name? _How long until they forgot her names for each of them: brave one for Lionkit; sweet one for Lightkit; precious one for Lightningkit? How long until they gave into what everyone said about her, how crazy she was, how vehement, how mad? How long until the image they held of her now was covered by the Clan's? Until her very memory was snuffed out by the cats closest to her heart, the only living ones that she would die for in a heartbeat, without even having to consider it?

_(If it was not for them, she would have vanished moons ago, and left no one in her wake that would care, or even spare her a single thought after those first few days.)_

It's worth it, though, the stress and snapping and nightmares and the worry and the doubt and the questions. It's all worth it, in the end. That's the most important thing, at least to her. Always, at the end of the day, they're there, all three of them, curled up against her belly and hundreds of miles away in their own dreams. They are all safe and precious and perfect in their own ways, and every night she swears to herself that so long as there is breath in her body, they will remain that way, untouched by the horrors of the world. She has seen too many cats go down that path, seen too many be devoured and harmed and hurt and chewed up and spat out by the cold, horrible world. She's been down there herself, and while some say they have come out of that darkness all the stronger for it, she knows she is frayed and damaged and will never be quite the same. But that's alright, in the end, because it's made her wise enough to protect them. It's given her the will to protect them from everything, and whatever she might suffer, she'll take it gladly if it means they'll never have to.

_(But they will have to suffer in the end, because everything does, everything falls and breaks at least once; all she can hope is that she's made them strong enough that they can pick the pieces back up and start again.)_


	40. 39 Cozy

**AN: Originally this was a Smoke/Minnow piece for Shadesaurus, but then TC had a "Big 3" character swap thing and I got Mackerel and this felt like way more fun.**

**This one-shot won't make any sense to you guys, especially since you already know Shackle kind of and everything here is so different from the other stuff you've read/will read about him but**

**Basically it's a hypothetical scenario set moons into the future, based on some events in rp**

**Shimmertail also wrote a super fantastic one in "We Are Glass" which you should all read because she is amazing. **

**Mack belongs to Shadesaurus, and I can't remember the kits. Con is hers, I think, Seisal is Shims', Ellie is Stormyleaf's, and Audrey is Brazenser's, maybe? Go check them all out, they are great.**

**39. Cozy**

"Oddball says—"

"Now, Conall, I've told you not to call her that. It's rude to call other kits names." Mackerel frowned down at the young tom; her thoughts had been elsewhere, but she knew he had a habit of teasing the older barn kits, despite the admiration he held towards Bennett – not to mention the older litter was twice his size.

The little tabby hardly missed a beat, only rolling his eyes before plunging on. "_Oddette _says he fought a badger."

"I thought it was a fox," the other tom-kit mewed, brow furrowed as he tried to remember. Conall silenced him with a glance.

"It was a _badger,_" the story-teller insisted. "Anyway, Odette says he fought it right over the next hill. Says there was blood and guts everywhere, and none of it was his."

"Eww," squealed one of the ginger-and-white she-kits listening in, but the other only looked sad, as if mourning the anonymous badger.

"Who are you talking about?" Mackerel had a feeling she already knew the answer, but she asked anyway, hoping she was wrong, hoping Rose's litter wasn't making up more frightening stories. That was the last thing _he _deserved, as much as he had given up for them.

Conall didn't answer, but his amber eyes slid away from her, towards the corner of the barn. There Shackle sat, brushing his tongue over his thick fur in his daily pattern of grooming – less out of vanity and more out of searching for something to do, she thought. Life in the barn was peaceful, for the most part, and while she doubted he missed any of the violence that had accompanied his life before, she wasn't sure he knew how to cope without it.

The smallest prickle of irritation ran through her fur as the other kits turned to gawk at the massive gray tom as well; his eyes flicked over to them for only an instant before he looked away again, but she knew he sensed their attention, ever-present, hovering over his fur.

She couldn't exactly blame them; Shackle was an enigma to the kits. She wasn't sure he had ever spoken two words to any of them; the most he ever did was give them a look now and then, when they went to talk to their 'Uncle Maelstrom.' Mostly he only hung back, watching with the expression of a cat who isn't quite sure he can trust himself. Shackle had more self-control than any cat Mackerel had ever seen, but she wasn't sure he knew it.

Still, it was wrong for them to gossip about him, to treat him as some legendary killing machine that looked only for battles to fight. And so she promptly told them so, scolded them and told them to stop staring at him, even though she knew the moment her attention wavered, they would begin anew, as they always did.

_If I could just get him to talk to them, that would be something, _she mused, biting her lower lip as she thought. _He _looks _terrifying, but all it really takes is one talk to understand that he's not like that at all…he's just a little lost, like everyone else. _

Shackle glanced towards them again, and in that moment she beckoned him with her tail, a silence invitation to join them. Hope fluttered within her for the briefest moment as he considered it, and she thought she saw the tiniest hint of wavering in his eyes. Then, he gave the smallest shake of his head, then looked away, returning to his grooming, yellow eyes dark and contemplative.

The kits didn't notice any of it, of course; they were caught up in a stirring debate on whether or not Shackle could take on a monster. Mackerel shushed them again, more sternly this time, and forced herself to look away from the hulking gray form.

Instead, she moved, coming between the kits and Shackle so that they could no longer prick him with their gaze.

"Do you want to hear a story?" she asked – the best way to distract them – and in their chorus of yes's, silently hoped Shackle did not think her actions were meant the other way around.

. . .

The kits were young enough that they fell asleep early, although she knew it would not always be so. Eventually they would be like Rose's litters, fighting the inky seduction of sleep with indignant calls and wrestling. But, for now, by the time the sun dipped down towards the horizon, they were little angels, flopped over one another. Most nights she curled around them as tightly as she could, but she could never quite fit all four kits into her embrace. Seisal's tail would poke out, or Ellie's head would shiver in the chill of the night, or Audrey's tiny paws would be splayed just outside her foster-mother's grasp.

This night, however, she did not attempt it; rather, she moved smoothly to her paws, gently scooping the hay around the little kits to keep them warm for a few moments without her. She looked over the barn, searching for his familiar shape, and found it where it always was now that Maelstrom was no longer teetering on the edge of death; near the entrance of the barn, just as he had been when they had all shared a tiny den together, acting as a silent sentinel. He did not stay up all night now, as he had then, just until the moon was at its peak. Then he would turn away, move so that his back was to the door, and let himself sleep. It was an improvement to how things had once been, but the habit was too ingrained for him to break it entirely.

She picked her way over the hay carefully, moving like a ghost over the dry straw. This was her forte, her highest skill; no one could be as silent as she, as stealthy when there was need. It had been a necessity back then, in the other barn, the one that she could still smell burning sometimes. Here it only came in handy now and then, when she was slipping away from the kits, or hunting for the little family they had crafted here, so far removed from the terror and pain of the past.

These nights were the only moments where things were quiet, now that the kits were old enough to speak. She supposed that some cats, like Shackle, enjoyed the moments of silence, the time for contemplation and introspection. She herself didn't mind them, but much preferred the daylight, not only to feel the warmth of the sun caressing her pelt, but also to listen to the hustle and bustle within the barn. There were no real pressing threats, no danger, but there was still enough action for her. She could never tire of listening to the kits play with one another, hearing the ways they called out to their siblings, seeing them develop over the moons. They had changed so much, all of them, and their lives were only just beginning. They would be protected and treasured and cared for, the way every kit should be, and she wanted to experience every moment of that.

"Shackle?" she said softly as she drew nearer, and he turned towards her, yellow eyes glinting like dull lanterns in the darkness.

"You should rest," he rumbled, voice deep and quiet and slow, an intrinsically comforting sound. He was their rock, their pillar, although he had no idea of it and probably would never fully understand. He couldn't see himself as they did; he could barely see himself as anything more than a cat, and even that was progress. "You have the kits to watch after all day."

"I don't mind them, you know that," she mewed, as she moved to sit down next to him. "Even if I hadn't promised Jaci to look after them, I would. They have so much _potential, _Shackle, I wish you could see it…." She trailed off then, not wanting to offend him, though he claimed to be incapable of it.

"What do you need?"

That was always how he said it now, because he knew her well enough to know that she never asked for petty wants, insignificant things. She almost never asked for anything at all, because it was her job to _provide, _to give the kits and their barn-family everything they could ever need without taking anything in return beyond that glow – almost like sunlight in itself – she felt when the little ones smiled up at her with that earnest, innocent love.

"It's about the kits, actually," she said, glancing up at him – he made her feel so tiny, like a kit herself – again. "They're very curious about you. They want to _know _you, but all they have are the stories I can tell, and the ones Rose's litter makes up…and that's not really enough. You're a part of our family too. You deserve that much."

He looked down for a moment, towards his paws. "They don't need to know me. There is not anything about me that is worth anything to them."

She felt that prickle of irritation – usually reserved for the kits when they were being stubborn – again, mixed with a touch of exasperation, because that was always how Shackle reacted to these sorts of things, always with that self-deprecation.

"You're wrong," she said, then blinked when the response came out more sharply than she'd intended, not like her usual tone at all.

"You're wrong," she meowed again, more gently this time. "Everything about you is worth knowing. Your past doesn't matter, not to them; it's who you are _now _that they should learn about. You're selfless, you're brave, you'd give up your life for any of us without a moment's hesitation. Don't you think that's stuff they should learn? Don't you think they deserve to know a cat like that?"

He blew out a low _huff _through his nose, and to her surprise, his eyes gleamed with frustration.

"They already _do,_" he growled. "They have _you, _the most selfless cat I could ever think of, the bravest, the most giving. You spend every waking moment looking after them, when they're not yours. You sold your soul for Maelstrom and myself without knowing what would happen, without ever expecting to come back. You stood by us despite the danger, you dove in to help us during the battle despite your hatred of it, you worked yourself to the bone to ensure that we all recovered afterwards. You brought me back from the brink of _nothingness, _bared your soul to help me see. I know you don't think I can see myself, but I do. I see my mistakes and my flaws and my faults every day, but never yours, because they don't _exist. You _are the best role model they could help to have. _You _are their provider, the one who loves them more than anything. And _you _should know better than anyone that it isn't safe for me to get close to them, because if I ever hurt them, even accidentally, I could never look at you again without that shame…and I cannot bear the thought of that."

She could only blink up at him, stare up at what she thought was the pillar of the barn gazing down at her with such intensity in his usually calm gaze. Her face heated as she remembered that night when she had brought him back from the brink, remembered how his tongue had brushed over her head. She felt it again, just as she had that night, the flickering warmth spreading throughout her like a tiny, cozy flame, as though the sun was somehow reaching her through his lantern eyes.

"I know why you're afraid. I know why you think you'll hurt them, even if you don't mean to. You've told me about them, those other kits, but it's exactly as I said; it's in the _past. _You are different now than you were then. You are not a servant. No one can order you to hurt them, and I know that you never would have hurt those others if you weren't forced into it." She stared up at him, trying to project that same warmth through her own eyes, pushing everything she had received back out into a new gift, as she always did. "Just give them the opportunity to get to know you. Please."

She turned away then, for she had left the kits alone longer than she'd intended, and could already imagine them shivering with cold, despite leaf-bare having been over for moons now. She half-hoped to hear the sound of him turning with her, the rustle of his mammoth paws over the straw, but all she received was a quiet, "Good night, Mackerel."

. . .

The next morning, she was slow to rise; her dreams had been strange, full of smoke and snow, badgers and bloodshed, and when she finally awoke, she felt just as tired as she had the night before.

The kits were not lying against her, but they usually got up before she did anyway, racing off to play one game or another, and so she allowed herself to relax, if only for a moment, taking a few breaths with her eyes still closed.

They were giggling nearby, and her ear swiveled to pick up their conversation.

"Oddball says you fought a badger," she heard Conall meow, and felt a small twinge of annoyance. She had hoped he wouldn't still be interested in the story, that she had been able to lay it to rest, but apparently—

Then, it struck her. _You, _not _he. _

Her eyes snapped open and she saw up, twisting around to stare at the kits, and felt a spark of disbelief. They were all sitting together, in a little semicircle – the most organized they had ever been. They were all staring upwards, so high that it looked as though little Audrey was about to tumble right over. And they were all completely rapt, eyes glowing with excitement as they waited for the focus of their attention to answer.

Shackle's eyes flicked over the little ones' heads for a minute, landing on her face instead. He gave her a little nod, a tiny gesture that sent that warmth running through her again, before rumbling,

"I am sorry to disappoint, but I have never fought a badger. They are more comfortable in the forest than they are here, and if you were to see one, it would be wiser to get out of its way. Badgers look big and scary, but if you leave them alone, they usually will not hurt you."

None of the kits looked disappointed in the least; they all seemed to be bubbling with questions, and he answered them as patiently as he could, until Ellie tossed him one that threw him off.

She didn't speak, only raised one paw, pointing towards his back, where his fur was the thickest. He seemed confused for a moment, before comprehension dawned on him.

Indecision fluttered over his face, and as he looked to Mackerel again, this time she was the one who nodded. Carefully – _extremely _carefully, so sluggishly that she almost could not believe it was the same tom who had torn over TacoClan's battlefield moons ago – he lowered himself so that he was lying on his stomach. Immediately the kits began scrambling over him, racing one another to get to the top of the gray mountain. He withstood it with only a few winches as they jarred his sore shoulders, not complaining even when Conall planted his paws firmly atop Shackle's head to crow, although he quickly removed them when Mackerel gave him a look.

Ellie remained at the bottom, her few feeble attempts at climbing his thick, shaggy fur unsuccessful. She gave him a pitiful look, batting her bright green eyes at him, and for a moment Mackerel stiffened, for she knew Shackle's history with them.

Carefully – impossibly carefully – he twisted around to grasp the little kit in his jaws. She looked as though she could have been swallowed by him without effort, in one bite, but seemed unafraid as he lifted her up so that she could grasp his back with her little paws. He released her, and Mackerel saw the relief glinting in his eyes as Ellie managed to climb up the rest of the way, unharmed and triumphant, even giving the back of one of his gray ears a thankful lick.

Shackle looked back at Mackerel, expression still tight with worry, but it eased as he saw the smile that seemed to have bubbled up from inside of her, seemed to have burst out along with the warmth running under her pelt. Shackle smiled back, although not as widely, even as Conall again tried to stake his claim on the tom's broad head.

That night, when Mackerel tried her best to surround all the kits, as she always did, she did not notice that Shackle was not in his usual spot at the entrance. She was concentrating so fiercely on trying to find a way to keep Conall's back from the chill that she did not hear him approach, until he was almost upon her, and even then it was only a second before he settled down around her, encompassing all of them with his own warmth.

Surprise flickered through her, but the kits barely stirred, only snuggled in more tightly against her belly and letting out contented sighs. So she did the same, leaning into him and resting her head against his chest, feeling his tongue come down between her ears just as it had before, just as gently as he had held little Ellie.

"Good night, Shackle," she murmured to him, and in reply received something she'd never heard from him before: the smallest, softest rumbling purr.

**AN: don't hate me pls shady ;-;**


	41. 40 Breaking

**AN: How did I get to 40 **

**How 0_0**

**40. Breaking**

They sat together, two opposites, one light and one dark. One was slightly smaller than the other, a bit more thoughtful as he tilted his head back to look up at the stars he so admired. The two of them shared the same eyes, however, glimmering like yellow diamonds in the shadows.

"Jasper made an alliance with the Peddlers today," the pale one said, glancing over at his companion, a slight note of pride in his voice.

The other one grunted. "Bruno sent a few heads rolling the other night. The Cobalts, I think."

They went on like that for a bit, swapping stories, each trying to outdo the other with their Master's exploits. It wasn't really part of their duties – they were not supposed to express pride in those they served, or talk about their activities – but the two of them had always been close. They had been raised together, trained alongside one another when the other kits of their litter failed. Their bond was tighter than any they could think of, beyond the ones to their Masters.

Sentinel glanced over his shoulder for a moment, into the gaping alley where their Masters were doing business, making plans while their servants waited patiently. They had lucked out, him and Auxil; their Masters had been smart enough to know that an alliance was in order, since they both wielded servants. It was rare for servants to fight with one another – partially because there were not many of them, and partially because it was unclear who would triumph over the other. Both Jasper and Bruno had wanted to avoid that at all costs.

He puffed out a quiet breath, watching the frost plume in the black sky. The alliance wouldn't last forever. They both knew that. Jasper and Bruno were very different cats, very different sorts of Masters. Whereas Jasper had been timid at first, Bruno had always been a brutal creature, pairing perfectly with Auxil's might. Both of them were dull, thuggish, more intent about bringing pain than gathering power. Whereas Jasper might give a smaller group time to think about joining him, or kidnap a few members if they said no, Bruno wasted no such time. With him, cats either joined immediately, or they died. It was simple, and bloodily effective.

"What are they talking about this time?" Auxil asked, his voice a thick growl. He glanced towards his brother, and for a moment, Sentinel thought he saw a flicker of unease in those dull eyes. He resisted the urge to shudder; sometimes his brother unnerved even him. Auxil was slightly larger, and far more powerful, in that he fought with no reservations. Whereas Sentinel might dodge a blow now and then, Auxil only plowed on with complete focus, until his opponent was in shreds.

Sentinel tore himself away from those thoughts, and only shrugged in reply. "Maybe they will move to cut off Brand together. She's made a few conquests lately, has she not?"

He grimaced at the idea, not wanting to cut his teeth in battle against Jackal, whose strength was also legendary, but Auxil smiled. Another chill ran down Sentinel's spine at his brother's ghastly attempt at a crooked grin, one fang barely poking out in the starlight. Auxil would relish such a challenge, enjoy wrapping his jaws around the older tom's throat and tearing the life right from his body.

Behind them, there was a sudden snarl, and immediately both toms were on their paws, wheeling around to gauge the danger. Their eyes widened together as they saw the two cats grappling on the alley floor, almost indistinguishable from one another, and like one force they moved together, grabbing the two spitting, snarling, smaller toms and tearing them apart. Sentinel was surprised to find Bruno in his jaws and Jasper in Auxil's; for a moment the two brothers only stared at each other, before immediately releasing the toms they held.

Bruno and Jasper stared each other down, fur bushed out and lips peeled back to expose their fangs.

"You've made a terrible mistake tonight!" Bruno hissed, his voice low, deep, and menacing. "We will crush you into dust!"

Jasper let out a derisive laugh, slashing the night air apart. "We'll reduce you to ashes and scatter you to the wind, quivering dung!" he spat back, and for a moment it looked as though they were going to lunge at one another again. Then, Jasper snorted, walking past Bruno and towards Sentinel without fear. Bruno watched him, dark amber eyes narrowed, before he skirted back towards his own servant.

"You'd best prepare yourself for the storm that's coming," the black-and-white Master grunted, before flicking his tail to Auxil, signaling for him to follow. The Masters stalked away from one another, going opposite ways down the alley, and Sentinel and Auxil only had time for one last shared look before they followed their respective Masters, knowing they were turning their backs on one another for what would be the last time, the second strongest bond either of them had ever known splintering, crumbling away to nothing.

. . .

Auxil grabbed the nearest opponent – a tiny tortoiseshell – by her back, digging his teeth in until he felt something crunch, and throwing her aside with careless ease. His blood was up, his heart was pumping, and in the back of his primal mind, he thought he had never felt more alive.

Bruno was nearby somewhere, but he rarely had to worry about the black-and-white tom's wellbeing; Bruno was a capable fighter on his own, with a taste for bloodlust, and the two of them could usually reduce an enemy's forces to nothing in under an hour.

However, this was not just any enemy, he remembered as teeth sunk into his shoulder. He twisted around, grabbing the ginger tom who was raking his claws down his side, and threw him to the ground, only to pause as he saw it was Jasper himself. The younger tom's chest heaved as he struggled for breath, and Auxil's eyes narrowed, his muzzle again twisting into that gruesome sneer of pleasure. His end would be messy and drawn-out, the servant would see to that.

He raised one mammoth paw, intending to gut the Master first, only to be knocked off his paws by a blow that seemed to come out of nowhere. He hit the dirt with a _huff, _trying to get to his paws, only to find an immense weight pressing down on him. Twisting in his opponent's grasp, he froze as he found familiar yellow eyes staring him down.

Sentinel's face was an expressionless mask as he stared down at his brother, trapped underneath of him. Auxil gave him a snarl of defiance, and the white tom's mask slipped, if only for a moment.

He shot a glance over his shoulder, then frowned down at his brother. "Stay out of our way," was all he said, before releasing the black tom and turning away.

Auxil only blinked, staring at his brother's receeding form, his white pelt marred by blood. He found his paws, but did not move, not for several long moments. He had been instructed by Bruno to kill _anyone _who crossed his path, and he was willing to bet Sentinel had been told the same. So he had broken orders, then, to protect his brother.

It was futile, of course. They both knew that. Only one winner would emerge this night, and it would be the one whose servant survived…and the only cat that could take down a servant _was _a servant. They would have to come to blows again, before the night was over.

He continued to stare, and for a moment he did not see Sentinel at all, but only a tiny tortoiseshell kit, the first kill he had been instructed to make. He had barely hesitated, but his brother had nearly gotten himself killed because he had refused to kill the other. It had only been with Auxil's urging that his brother had managed it.

Sentinel had always been the weaker of the two of them, the softer hearted, and he knew that it would be Sentinel that fell that night. He had thought of it before, even back then when they were kits. Sentinel had his stars to gaze up at, his quiet hopes, but Auxil had always known how things would end. They had been raised together, side-by-side, but one would outlive the other. That was simply how things were, and there was no escaping it.

Nor was there any reason to prolong it.

He threw himself forward with explosive force, and this time it was he who knocked Sentinel off of his paws, sending him crashing to the ground.

The white tom reacted as though he had been expecting the blow, twisting around before Auxil could get a grip on him, and kicking upwards. It was enough to send a normal cat flying, but Auxil was only pushed backwards, as something inside of him crunched. He bowed his head in a grunt of pain, but there was no time to waste. He moved forward again, reaching for Sentinel's throat.

The white tom rolled away from him, yellow eyes glowing like sparks as he concentrated. He lunged at his brother, and it sounded in Auxil's ears like two boulders colliding as he fell back to the ground.

Sentinel's claws raked down the length of his stomach, but he could only get in a few swipes before Auxil clubbed him on the side of the head with one paw, stunning him just long enough for the black tom to rise up and grasp his brother by the shoulders, throwing him to the side.

He took a step back only for a moment, to catch his breath, feeling his stomach stinging fiercely, throbbing with every pump of his heart. Sentinel's white fur was slick with blood, but his eyes still gleamed fiercely.

They sprang together again as once, each clawing and tearing and shredding the other with no sound at all, not a snarl or a spit or a hiss, nothing beyond the occasional grunt of pain. They separated and came together and separated again, muscles burning and chests heaving for breath. Fire humming through Auxil's veins, electricity humming in his ears, and he gave his brother a bloody smile, for it was the best battle he could ever remember having fought.

There was no such joy in his brother's eyes, only resignation as they came together for the last time.

This time, Sentinel made a mistake. This time, Auxil was ready for his signature twist-to-the-left-and-stirke. This time, instead of fur, Sentinel's claws only found air, as his brother came from his other side and wrapped his jaws around Sentinel's throat. He felt the life pulse in his jaws, and wasted not a moment in biting down, twisting as he did so to use his brother's weight against him, throwing him to the ground and the dust of the streets, scarlet blood mixing with the gravel.

Sentinel thrashed in his grasp, managing to get onto his back and slash again and again at Auxil's stomach, claws digging in deeply, but the black tom barely felt the pain. His body hummed with exhilaration as his brother's heartbeat faltered, faded, as his yellow eyes began to dim. Sentinel went limp in his grasp, and Auxil released him, watching his brother's flanks heave with his last breaths, as blood bubbled in his jaws.

Sentinel's dulling eyes flickered upwards, towards the stars he had so adored, but Auxil did not know if he found them. He only watched, silently, as Sentinel tried to form some sort of words, some last communication, but the words died on his tongue as his eyes finally clouded over, and he was still.

Auxil spat out a mouthful of blood – some of it his own, as he was missing a fang now; it was probably embedded in Sentinel somewhere – and glanced around, expecting to see his Master. Instead, there was nothing, only more snarling, hissing cats. He had not won the battle, not yet. He had only tipped the scales in their favor. There were still dozens of cats to fight, dozens of lives to take.

And every one would pale in comparison to the one he had just ended.

His eyes found his brother's body again, and he only stared at it for several moments. Already it seemed unfamiliar, a shrunken shell of the cat he had trained beside, endured unimagined horrors with. Gone was the brother he knew, the clever one, the one with the quicksilver tongue, when he dared employ it.

_Gone _was never a concept that had occurred to him, not back then. He had always known it would end this way, and perhaps Sentinel had too, but neither of them had ever thought about the _after. _

He gave the body a feeble nudge with his nose, but only felt a stranger his touch, a lump of bloody meat and fur. There was no familiarity in the clouded eyes, no wisdom ready to roll out of his mouth. There was nothing, only emptiness, and for the first time, Auxil felt a tremor of fear.

As the exhilaration ebbed out of him and the realization sunk in - the _gone, _the _after, _the fear – the pain surged forward. He was suddenly wheezing, as his crushed ribs cried out. He was suddenly aware that one ear was hanging by a thread, that his tail was twisted in a way it should not be, that several claws were missing, that there were _pieces _of himself missing. And, looking down, he saw the wounds running alongside his stomach, the inner workings of things that he should not be able to see.

Like a falling tree, he sagged to the ground, breath coming out in a rush, and it suddenly seemed impossible to bring it back in. Panic spiked over his fur, the panic of a dying creature that cannot quite grasp the thought of death itself, and he tried to rise again, only to collapse. Thick, wet blood matted his fur, and he peeled his lips back in an expression of defiance and terror.

He looked for Bruno again, but his Master was lost in the fray. He looked back to the thing that had once been Sentinel, but there was no help for him there. He looked up, into the sky, thinking he might see Sentinel's stars, but there was nothing but gray clouds above his head.

This time, it was fear that ran through his veins, over his pelt, in his ears. He fought for breath, head sagging towards the ground until his nose was pressed against it. _This _was the hardest battle he'd ever had to fight, the one that every cat eventually came to grips with, the one that could not be won.

He tried to move forward, as if that would help him escape, but his paws were like heavy stones, sticky with the gore speckled over the ground. Blood dripped from his jaws, mixing with the rest.

He sagged, then, onto his side, the hulking behemoth reduced to any other panting, fading, dying cat. His thoughts were dominated only by the need to keep breathing, the need to keep forcing air in and out of his crumpled lungs. Not once did he think of his Master, who was lying only a few fox-lengths away, gasping his last. Not once did he consider Jasper, who without a servant would only last half a moon before crumpling, the little that he had earned fading away into dust. Not once did he think of the futility of it all, these battles that were never won, the lives that were fought for and forgotten, the others that had passed the same way he had, gasping and alone. He was only a creature, trapped in a body that had been sinking from the beginning, trying to keep his head above water even as the darkness reached to pull him under.

His body was left to rot with the others, another empty vessel whose story would never be told, nor understood.

**AN: Almost never do I get to write from the perspective of the dying.**


	42. 41 Either Or

**AN: This is the first part of THE CHOICE, something I hyped up on TC for awhile.**

**Most of what we've seen of Shackle and Fett has been in the past, so this prolly won't make any sense to you guys. Sorry!**

**41. Either Or**

"Hello, Shackle."

He could hear the dull, shocked silence emitting from his son. He could hear the labored breathing, smell the mixture of blood and shame, and knew that Shackle had failed someone yet again. And that was perfect.

"Let us go for a walk."

He rose to his paws, the movement fluid despite his aching body, betraying not an ounce of weakness. He could afford to channel strength into his paws now, to tilt his head towards his son without showing any frailty. After all, once all was said and done, he would have no need for breath.

He could hear Shackle's indecision, torn between the duty he believed he had towards the bloodied tom and his overriding loyalty to his father, and said again more sharply, "Let us go."

Even without his eyes, his authority was absolute. There was a reason he had never checked in on his son during his servitude, never stopped by to make sure all was going well. Whether Shackle liked it or not, his loyalty to his father was encoded more deeply within him than anything. He'd made sure of that.

"I…I have to go, sir. I'm sorry. But I will be right back, I promise." his son rumbled, voice brimming with shame and self-loathing, like the whimper of a dog that's been kicked. Fetter began moving forward. He heard more voices – concern and confusion filling the air – but ignored them, as did Shackle without having to be told: such was Fetter's control over him, his spell, his binding.

He picked his way through the barn with care. He had practiced doing so a few times before, when Alifair was off on one errand or another. It was crucial that he maintained this air of power, despite being so weak, crucial to have the illusion of his old self flowing through him. Shackle was shocked at his condition – he knew that much without having to see him – but his son's perception of him was blurred with older memories, layers upon layers of pain and authority blended together. He would use that, build on it, up until the right moment, the moment where everything would crumple perfectly, not according to Castion's wishes, but his own.

He had not practiced walking outside of the barn, but that hardly mattered. He cared not which direction they went, only that it was away from the barn, far enough that no one could see them. The ground – still coated with a layer of icy snow – curved underneath his paws as they headed down the slope.

Shackle said nothing as the ground flattened out beneath their paws, but he was buzzing with questions. He had always been easy to read, when you knew where to look: the hesitation in his pawsteps; the brief lull between breaths as he gathered his thoughts; the way his weigh shifted as he looked again to his father with each step. He would have smiled to himself, were he the kind for such amusements, for even in taking his eyes, Castion had not truly robbed him of his sight, not in cases such as these.

The ground curved up again, then smoothed out as they reached the crest of another hill, before dipping downwards once more. Fetter continued on, silently counting the pawsteps, trying to figure out just how far they had gone.

"I need to get back," his son began, unable to contain himself any longer, but he cut him off with only the flick of an ear.

"You are not going back, and even if you were, they would not want you. You have failed those you sought to protect, as you always do."

Shackle let out a quiet, muffled, pained breath, and he stumbled. For a moment, Fetter doubted him, doubted that he would be able to finish the task his father had chosen. But that doubt fell away quite easily, for despite Shackle's many failures, if there was anything he was good at, it was killing.

"Can you see the barn?" he growled, as the earth flattened out beneath them. Shackle paused for a moment, the snow crunching as he turned around to look.

"No, sir," he meowed, his voice hushed, almost glazed.

"Then it is time for an explanation, I believe," he meowed, tilting his muzzle to look up at his son, eyelids still closed, "but there is more to it than that."

His son shifted uneasily, paws crunching the frozen earth and remaining snow. "Yes?"

"It is not your place to make decisions." He chose every word with care, as he had practiced many a time. "You are nothing without your Master. That is always what you have been taught. But times are changing, and you must change with them, do you understand? There are agendas at work in Twolegplace, and they have been mandated to me. I must obey those orders, but I will not do so without protest." He paused again, drawing out the wait, until Shackle fidgeted, shifting his weight again. "It is not your place to make decisions, but I am making it so now. I am going to lay two paths before you, and when I am finished with both, you will decide which to take."

He could almost taste Shackle's protest, but cut him off again with a flick of his tail. "Do not speak until I have finished. You must listen to both pieces. You will not interject, you will not interrupt. In the end, you will make your choice, and that will be it. You cannot go to anyone for help; the decisions before you prevent that, no matter which you pursue. You cannot even go to that creature you call a Master, because in neither choice, he is not your authority."

Shackle made a quiet noise then, a sound of protest, but Fetter took no heed of it. He went on, channeling all of his power into his voice, rather than his ruined eyes.

"You are wondering how I came to be in this condition, and why I am here. It is very simple. After you left, Castion was enraged. He tore the city asunder looking for you, the murderer of his son." Again, Shackle made some half-objection, before the smallest curl of his father's lip silenced him. "But you were long gone, and thus the brunt of his rage fell upon me. I, who had trained you, made you what you were. I, who had told him his son would be safe. He blamed a great deal on me, and this was his way of making amends. He sought to broke me, as thoroughly as I broke you, years ago now. He crushed me into pieces, tore away the scraps of power that I had clung to, and gave me a new name to carry. In essence, he turned me into you. It was poetic justice to him on some level, I believe, but you know I care little for that.

"My new name is not important, nor are the injuries I sustained, not to you. What is important – crucial, even – is the task he gave me. To come and find you, to rip your world apart, and then to send you to him, so that he might crush the 'perfect specimen,' the fruit of my labors. You might even consider it praise." He tilted his head to the side, listening. "But you still do not understand. After all, you consider that _whelp _to be your Master. What hold does Castion have over you?

"The answer is simple. He has _me. _As he put it, I owned you while Tobias did. I did not exert that influence, that authority, but it was mine, just as you are mine now. Your Master does not hold any sway on you, because he is _not_ aMaster. You chose him yourself, or you let Fate do it. You did not go through me. He is not of high blood, he does not understand what being a Master means, and I do not doubt that although you tried to teach him, it did not work. He cannot be the Master you need to guide you. He does not have the inborn authority within him.

"But I do. You left your Master while he was weak because I told you that you must; that is the might I wield. But it is not mine to carry any longer. It is Castion's. He owns me, and thus everything that is mine, is his. And so if he says that you must come to him in Twolegplace, to be slaughtered, ground up, and scattered to the wind, you must. That is your fate."

He could smell it on the breeze, the smallest trace of fear-scent, and again he almost smiled. Shackle was not one to show fear – it had been stamped out of him, for all but the direst of situations – and if he was releasing it, however unconsciously or unwillingly, it meant that his plan was working.

"That is one choice," he went on, the lightning in his words crackling against his tongue. "You bow to the highest authority, as you were taught. You will go to Twolegplace and accept your sentence, because that is your rank and station in this world, and nothing will change that, nothing at all."

The gears were turning in his son's mind, and he waited again, biding his time, until Shackle finally murmured,

"That seems clear. There can be no other alternative to that, not without breaking the chain of command. There…there is nothing else I can do but to go to him." There was anguish there, underneath the words, despite his best attempts to hide it. Each syllable dripped with guilt, something that had always and fully been unique to him, this last surviving son. Sentinel had done whatever was necessary to protect his own life, Auxil had taken pleasure in the brutality, but it was Shackle who had writhed in the night, captured by the ghosts of those he had harmed, tortured in the darkness only to emerge unmarked in the sunlight. It had always seemed curious to Fetter, that mixture of guilt coupled with his steadfastness, his loyalty, but there had been no quashing it completely, and he had not been foolish enough to try.

"Are you certain…is Maelstrom really not…."

"Of course he isn't." He injected the disdain into his voice, the scathing heat. "He is but a common, lowly rogue. He comes from no bloodline, no cats of renown or prestige. He is nothing but trash to be swept aside. He is not _worthy _to possess a servant such as yourself. But we know Castion is. You and I have both seen his power – unchangeable, absolute, engraved in stone. There is no swaying the truth. You belong to him, completely and utterly, and he wants nothing more than to tear you apart, to make you suffer as no cat has."

He heard his son move, bowing his head; had Fetter been any other cat, he would have been in shreds by now, but Shackle made no move to hurt him. How could he, bonded as the two of them were, linked together by pain, fear, and isolation?

He let him grapple with the implications awhile longer – the ideas that he would have to turn his back on his Master, his group, everything he had come to know to go and face certain death – before he spoke again.

"That is your first option. But there is another, as I said. And you must listen to this one in its entirety, before you say anything at all."

He heard Shackle's head rise again, could practically feel the tom's yellow eyes boring into his coat.

"The second option is very, very simple." A ghost of a purr hovered in his words. "You must simply accept that you are not a servant, and you have never been one."

For a moment, there was silence, as complete a silence as he had ever heard. For a single moment, not even the wind dared blow, not even the trees dared creak.

And then, there was a deep, rumbling growl that might have belonged to a monster prowling the city streets.

He smiled to himself then: it was exactly what he had been hoping for.

"I have told you many things," he meowed. "I have spoken of the bloodline we carry. I have told you of our practices, how we have served Masters for years and years, going farther back than anyone could hope to remember. I have told you how we were bred for this, carefully selected by cats wiser than ourselves. I have told you that you never had a choice from the moment of your birth, because you were born lower than dirt. I have told you all of these things, and you accepted them as the truth because that was all you had. But they were lies. All of them. Complete fabrications, given to me many years ago in an offer that was very simple: find young toms, train them, and give them away. Break them down, strip them away, crush them to their bare bones, and build them back up in the image they gave me.

"It was not an easy request, but it was not impossible. I was at the bottom of the heap, caught in the trash and muck of the city, and I chose to accept it. All I had to do was make a few cats the perfect lieutenants. Every rising city boss had one – that was what they had noticed, my employers. Every new star had someone at their side that they could count on as they rose to power. And, always, they inevitably fell out. One way or another, their partnership broke. My task was to create a bond that would not, _could not _break, building upon their beginning ideas.

"I knew I would never reach the top of the pile. I knew this would not take me to great riches or power. I knew that I would remain a pawn, albeit higher than the cats I would train. I knew this would never lead me to _greatness, _but it was a step up, a way to get above those around me, a way to pull myself out of the slime and filth, if only for a brief moment. I would fall back down again, be dragged back to my station as I am now, but for some time – weeks, moons, years – I would be just high enough to keep my head above water. And that was enough.

"There _is _no great bloodline. I do not know who my father was; probably another unremarkable cat mixed in with all the rest. There is no mighty calling you were born to follow, no hallowed path that you tread on. There is no _legacy _to be a part of, only a lie that you bought into, heart, body, and soul.

"Jackal was the first. There were mistakes with him, many. He was too old, Brand was a she-cat and could not be trusted to lead him, and my methods were flawed. So I moved on. Sentinel and Auxil were trained together, and they too were flawed, in different ways. So I moved on. And then I got to you, crafted you into the perfect idea of a servant, and in the end even that fell apart.

"The secret is, Shackle, there is no such thing as a servant. There never has been, and there never will be, because the idea itself is fundamentally flawed. You cannot take a cat and make it something it is not. You cannot make it a simple tool, devoid of emotions and cares and considerations and desires. You have shown that many a time, bending here, straining there. You have made mistakes, and Tobias paid the price.

"But that's fine, because there is no such thing as a Master, either. It was an idea, a hoax, conjured up by cats more powerful than you could ever imagine, and given to me to create. I instructed the families as best I could, but the Masters still became warped. You've seen that too. The arrogance, the power of having a life completely in their paws changes them. They become aggressive, disconnected, too glutted on their own power to realize they are still mortal. And the servants feed into it, urging them on, pressing them into the Masters they are supposed to be, not realizing that the idea they are pursing is intangible, impossible to achieve.

"Because what is a Master, if it does not listen to the most honest advice it will ever receive? When did Tobias consider your words truly and utterly, without dismissing you as inferior? And when did you independently try to act for his own good, despite your status? That is the _problem, _the problem with all such partnerships, even those that I did not touch. There is always one higher, and one lower, and eventually the scales tip too far and all is lost. Eventually one cat becomes too strong or another too weak, and the very foundations of what had once made them so powerful crumbles away, and both are left with nothing of what they had to begin with.

"_That _is the idea you have lived your life pursing. _That _is the legacy I have created. _That _is what your brothers died for. _That _is why you suffered, what caused you to be beaten and downtrodden and isolated and wracked with fear and guilt. Nothing more than mere selfishness, complete greed, the sacrificing of any conceivable moral values so that I could have a full belly and a place to sleep. _That _is what you are worth to me, and if you accept this – the idea that there is no true Master, there is no true servant – then Castion has no hold over you at all. _I _have no hold over you. No one does, and no one can, because _you do not exist._"

As the last word fell from his lips, he felt a brief moment of emptiness; no others sprang forwards in his mind, no others rushed to spill from his tongue. There was silence in his mind as well as in the waking world, and somewhere he found that last scrap of guilt that he had buried for so long, tucked away and hidden just as Castion had buried his own secrets. He opened himself up to it, rejoiced in the moment, for he had done what he had set out to do. He had destroyed his son, torn down the truths of his life, forced him to confront two irreconcilable paths. He had taken Castion's revenge exactly as he had been ordered, and yet subverted it. And now he opened himself up, waiting for the killing blow.

Had he been able to see his son's face, he would have noticed the stone-like mask that had come over him, so much like his father's. He would have seen the deadness in his yellow eyes, the torment there. He would have seen the claws gripping the frozen ground, the tightly clenched jaw. And he would have seen the mask begin to slip, seen the unbridled fury rising in his son's eyes, seen the claws ripping into the earth and the exposed fangs. But he did not have to see it, because he could _smell _it, like hot metal in the air, fierce and scorching. He knew the exact moment when his son's paws left the earth, when Shackle hurled himself at the monster before him.

And he made no move to avoid it.

**AN: There were three more posts that were all part of THE CHOICE and stuff, but because of POV changes and things, they don't fit very well into a one-shot. So this is all you guys get, if you care. xD**

**We will see some of the aftermath in Willpower, I think.**


	43. 42 Tell Me a Story

**42. Tell Me a Story**

He advanced upon the tiny kit – at only a little more than two moons old, the kit could barely talk, let alone outrun a powerful, dangerous cat like him. The little tabby did his best, zig-zagging over the faintly dusty ground, but his pursuer was too fast. The kit shot a glance over his shoulder, his green eyes wide, and in doing so he stumbled over his own paws, collapsing in a heap, and his attacker saw his chance.

A familiar, predatory smile curled his muzzle, and his own green eyes gleamed as he moved in. He sprang, and pinned the kit down with one paw; the little tom struggled underneath of him, trying to get away, but was no match for the older tom's strength. He bared his fangs – his jaws were large enough to swallow the kit whole with barely any trouble at all – letting out a low hiss, a sound of triumph, before he went in for the strike.

The kit giggled as the tom nibbled at his ears, before releasing him and taking a step back. Instead of fleeing for his life, the kit bounced up towards him, batting at the older tom's nose in a way that few dared.

The tom let out a low, throaty chuckle. "You have to be faster next time, Tobias," he purred, giving the kit a rough lick behind the ear before lying down, tucking his paws beneath him as he stared down at his son with twinkling eyes.

Tobias dared to jab at his father's nose a few more times, before copying him, lying down. His green eyes – very much like his father's, something that Castion took pride in – gleamed expectantly. Castion said nothing, however, and the kit finally let out a quiet, pleading mewl.

His father remained impassive, waiting for more, and at least the kit huffed, "What are we doing now?"

Castion licked one paw, drawing it over his ear. "If you want something, you need to seize it. Don't wait for someone else to give it to you. What do _you _want to do now?" He already knew the answer, but he waited, intention on driving the message home. Tobias had a habit of hanging back and waiting for things to happen, rather than taking charge himself, and that could be dangerous for a ruler.

The kit mulled it over for a moment, doing just as his father had, licking his paw and brushing his ear as he thought. Then, he brightened. "Tell me a story."

A dozen stories flitted through Castion's mind – many of them too bloody to tell, others too personal, as green eyes and flame-dappled fur rose from his memories – but he only smiled, glancing over Tobias's head towards his mate, who sat across from him, staring down at her paws. She looked up, as if sensing his gaze, and he could see the anxiety flutter in her green eyes for a mere moment, before she hid it, as she always did.

"What do you think, Pea?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light, despite the resentment hovering between them, something that Tobias could not yet sense. "What story do you have for the lad?"

"I've told him all of mine. You know he likes yours better." Her voice was soft, but she could not quite disguise the distaste running beneath her words. His eyes gave her a warning twinkle, and she looked back down at her paws.

"So he does." Castion grinned down at his son, the same grin he employed when ripping disloyal minions apart; both aspects of his life gave him that same rush, that same sort of strange, feral joy. "Well then, little lad, I'll think of something."

_Time for the lesson, I do believe, _he mused. _Hopefully he's old enough to pay attention._

"Alright, get close now," he said, rolling onto his side to allow Tobias to tuck himself against his stomach, his face bright and attentive. "This isn't the type of story you usually get. The characters don't have names, there is no real action, but it's still an important one to tell, understand?"

Tobias jerked his head in a quick nod, and Castion purred softly.

"Alright, then. Let me see now…." He closed his eyes, conjuring up the images exactly as he had when designing the story, the lesson, moons and moons ago.

"Once, in a city very much like this one, there was a brave young tom. He came from nothing and no one, had no territory or friends or family to speak of, and he was not content with that. He had always dreamed of more, of expanding his horizons, but he knew not how to do it.

"There were many cats in the city, but very few of them were powerful. In fact, power was so scattered throughout the city, amongst the various cats, that there _were _no true bosses or kings or anything of the sort within the city limits. It was very lawless, very dangerous, and very deadly, and the young tom vowed to change this.

"But how? That was what he did not know. So he began to search, to try and find the best way to rule. He talked to other cats, but of course they could not help him, never having been rulers themselves. He watched the Twolegs, thinking he might learn the secrets of their powers, but after some time, he realized the Twolegs were just as muddled and confused as most cats he knew, and they would be of no help at all. He watched the city, but the gray buildings and rushing monsters did not understand true power either. He listened to the wind, watched the rain splash down, smelled the stench of smoke blanketing them, felt the hardy structure of the streets under his paws, but nowhere could he find the answers he so desperately sought.

"Then, one day, he awoke to no smoke in the sky, and no rain. He looked up into the sky, and found the sun. It was the brightest thing he had ever seen, dazzling in its magnificence, and immediately he knew the sun was the highest power in all the land. And so he began watching the sun, and learned from it.

"He saw that the sun brought forth warmth. He could see its light dappling the ground, could feel the heat on his pelt. It was comforting, but he knew it was also what kept the world alive, for without the sun's warmth, the harsh cold moons crept in, covering the entire city in a layer of frost, until the sun was able to banish it once again. The sun fed the very earth with its rays, just as a leader must feed those that follow him, and be attentive, lest they weaken when he looks away.

"He saw the brightness with which the sun glowed. It was power in its rawest form, indomitable, lurking even behind the thickest of clouds. It was dazzling, captivating, and even after he looked away it sent sparks dancing behind his eyelids. The sun left a lasting, powerful impression, even when it was not around, and he understood that he must do the same. He must make himself felt, known throughout all the land, and ensure that his legacy is great enough to linger even when he was not present.

"He saw the sun could be both kind and cruel. The sun was the bringer of warmth, but sometimes it could overpower those it looked on. Those were the hot moons, where it was wisest to hide in the shadows and wait for night to come. It was capable of fearsome heat, so much so that the very streets of the city felt scorched. In this he recognized the sheer might of the sun, and how even the threat of that power was enough to make those living on the earth tremble.

"He saw the sun's relationship with the moon, how the moon leeched its power from the sun and patrolled the night in return. Even when the sun was not present, the moon was there to look on, to oversee the events of the earth in the sun's stead. He would have to do the same, to set up cats that would be loyal to him and patrol where he could not, when his kingdom grew mighty enough.

"The tom learned all of these lessons simply by watching the great orb pass over the earth, and in doing so, he became wise. He was no longer young, but was not quite old, and he knew he was of the perfect age to begin crafting his legacy.

"So he did. Like the sun, he took care to reward those close to him, and to be watchful over all under his protection. He dazzled his followers just as the sun did, making sure that they worshipped and revered him, so they would not turn against him. He cast his touch over the entire city, so that all would know of his presence and remember. He employed both kindness and cruelty, punishing those that fought against him with blazing heat and pain, extinguishing any flare-ups quickly and wish precision. But he did not press too hard, less those under him become resentful and seek sanctuary elsewhere. He crafted followers, those who would be his eyes all over the tangled streets, to walk where he could not, to report back to him anything that was amiss. He did all of these things and more, and in time became the most powerful tom in the entire city. They called him the Sun King, and he was remembered for years and years and years after his death."

Castion's eyes glowed at the thought of so much power, of the ambition behind it, of the craftiness needed, the wit and cunning. _That _was how a leader should come to power, not by luck and circumstance, as so many other bosses had.

He looked down and saw the same excitement in his son's eyes – not as much as he might have hoped, perhaps, but enough.

"The story is made up, of course, but the Sun King is inside of all of us," he meowed. "He is in me, and he is in you, and he is in any other cat on the path to power. Take his lessons to heart, keep them close, and so long as the sun hangs in the sky, you will prosper."

Tobias nodded.

"I'll be the Sun King, someday," he promised, then yawned, sleepiness clouding over the ambition in his eyes. He leaned against his father's side, eyes closing, and within moments, the little prince was fast asleep.

Castion watched him breathe for a moment, marveling at the way his tiny flanks moved. It seemed impossible that such a creature could have come from him, but at the same time, he felt a flicker of anger; Tobias should have had littermates. There should have been more kits, just in case something happened, but Pea was weak, frailer than he had thought, and she had miscarried more than once. He should thank the stars he had Tobias at all, and yet there was some part of him that felt even his son was not quite enough. Nothing was ever enough.

His thoughts drifted back to the story, the elusive Sun King, and the smile flashed over his muzzle. That was the legacy he wanted to leave behind; a golden king, feared by his enemies and revered by his followers. He wasn't there, not yet – there was plenty of the city left to be conquered, plenty of bosses to be crushed. But every day brought him closer to that absolution, that triumph, and eventually he would have an empire worthy of passing down, when the time came.

Pea rose to her paws tentatively, cautiously, and his lip curled; if there was any weakness in Tobias, it would come from her.

"I'll stay the night," he growled, and she nodded, lying back down and curling up so that her face was hidden from his view. He felt a stirring of that old hunger, that drive, but Pea had never been good enough, not in that way.

His eyes drifted back down towards his son, and for a moment he wondered how different Tobias would be, if his pelt was gray instead of gold.

_Hardly befitting a Sun King, _he thought, exhaling sharply and shaking his head, dismissing the thoughts. He did not know where Burr was, nor did he care – or that was the lie he told himself, tucking those old flames away. She had served her purpose, produced the kits necessary to craft a servant, and Stone had done with her whatever he had pleased. She was of no use to him now, and never would be again.

He rested his head on his paws, closing his eyes, letting out the quietest of exhales, lulling himself to sleep, knowing exactly what would be waiting for him.

"_Tell me a story," she rumbled, her voice like rough gravel as she pressed her nose against his shoulder, the two of them curled up together like a pair of snakes. He purred quietly, reaching to nip at her neck, and smiled at her own purr of pleasure._

"_A story?" he echoed, brushing his muzzle over her fur._

"_You're the one with the silver tongue," she grunted, running her nose over his throat, the vibrations of her voice running through him. "You're good at that. Tell me somethin' new. Tell me somethin' I ain't heard. Everythin' tastes stale now."_

_He thought of his story, the one he had conjured for when he finally had heirs, and smiled. "Alright. I got one."_

_And he told it, all of it, the words flowing like water over stone, and she listened with the same dutifulness she always did. By the end of it, her eyes were glazed over with boredom, and she punctuated the last line with a yawn._

"_Don't get it," she said, voice thick with sleep. "Sun's just a thing. It don't lead. Don't think."_

"_It's a _symbol_," he answered, sitting up so he could see her face in the gloom. "A lesson for what leaders should be. Something I can tell my sons."_

_She wrinkled her nose. "Don't get it," she said again. "Sun's mindless. It jus' burns an' burns. That's not what a leader is."_

_Irritation crackled over his pelt at her slowness, her inability to grasp things that came so easily to him. "The sun is timeless. It goes on forever. That's what leaders should be."_

"_Everything burns out eventually. Ain't nothin' forever."_

_He pulled away from her, tail lashing. "Never mind. It doesn't matter." The lie was edged with venom, and even she could sense it. Her green eyes narrowed, flashing in the darkness, but she only rolled away from him, curling up on her own, looking like a dappled boulder. He glared at her back, then did the same, pressing his nose against his tail._

Every Sun King has a moon, _a voice whispered in the back of his mind, _but that moon must be bright. That moon must be beautiful. And she is not that moon.

_Even in his dream, he knew that was the last story they would share, the story that was the tipping point on the scales he had so carefully balanced, the story that would light his path while hers crumbled into nothing. It was the end of _them _and the beginning of _him, _as the sun set on their time together._

**AN: In some ways, Burr saw things more clearly than Castion ever could.**


	44. 43 Waiting

**AN: A gift for dearest Stormy, since I kinda jerked him around the other night. Ily. c:**

**(also because I've never written about poor Cedar, which is sad considering almost everyone else has been represented in one way or another :I)**

**Also, bit of background: Featherstripe (the lady love in question, who belongs to dear Stormyleaf) was assaulted by a rogue and knocked up. She had a previous mate, Ashfall, but left him for Cedarwhisker, my bro right here. **

**43. Waiting**

Eight-two mornings. Eighty-two sunrises, eighty-two pink dawns splashed over the sky, eighty-two first-bird-calls, eighty-two shakes of his pelt on his way out of the den, eighty-two shivers as he settled down on the frozen earth to stare at the entrance of camp Eighty-two days without her, eighty-two hopes dashed as her beautiful form did not grace their little camp, eighty-two nights without her at his side.

He hadn't counted, of course. He couldn't handle numbers that high. Eighty-two was monstrous, impossible to consider. He only lived day-by-day, with a vague feeling of the eternity that had passed since he had last seen her, since he had made his promise.

_Every morning, _he thought as he came to sit in his usual spot – he was a bit surprised he hadn't worn out the patch of earth yet, but perhaps he would in time – and curled his tail around his paws. He stared at the entrance with his usual calm certainty. This would be the day she returned. He could feel it in his bones.

He said that every morning, of course, if only because it was better than the alternative. There was no guarantee that she was safe. There was no certainty that she was on her way back. There was no way to know if she was even _alive, _but he couldn't believe that she wasn't. He would feel it if something happened to her, he was certain of it. He _loved _her, more than he had any cat in his life, and something like that didn't just vanish into thin air.

Still, it didn't hurt to make sure.

_Keep her safe, _he prayed, as he did every morning, as the sun peeked over the horizon, casting its glow over the bottle-glass sky. _Keep them all safe, every one of them, but keep her the safest._

The thing that worried him most was the kits. He had hoped she would be back before she gave birth; even if he was with her, it would be excruciating, traumatizing, but it had to have been a hundred times worse to do so away from home. He had never imagined that the patrol would be gone for so long, but perhaps events had conspired against them, trapping them somewhere, as the Prophecy Patrol had been trapped so many moons before. Another cat might have dwelt on the irony of it, him being kept away from his mate just as she had been in the past, in similar circumstances, but he was not one to dwell on such things. All he cared about was that she would come home, with kits or without them.

Even if they were little ginger devils, they would still be beautiful in his eyes, because they would all be little pieces of her, the scattered embers of a shooting star.

He closed his eyes, conjuring her up in his mind, picturing her silver pelt and beautiful blue eyes. When she came back, he'd fill up every moment telling her how lovely she was, he promised himself that. Things would be different – they were together, finally, but she would be raising another litter that was not his own – but they would persevere. He was adamant about that. So long as he was alive, Featherstripe would be safe. So long as he drew breath, she would know that she was beautiful and perfect and loved. He would be there for her, would raise the kits as his own if that was what it took, to ensure she would never have to feel alone or vulnerable again.

He twitched his nose as a stray snowflake – the product of the little flurry that was whipping up around him, brushing over his russet pelt – fluttered over his nose, and shivered again. It seemed a bit daft to just be sitting out here in the cold, waiting for a she-cat who would probably not appear that day, but it had not stopped him in the eighty-one prior mornings. Perhaps it had been a little silly, waiting out the very first morning after she had left, but he had not wanted to take the chance of the patrol turning back for one reason or another, and her finding him having already broken his promise of waiting for her.

_Every morning, _he thought again, and smiled to himself with a touch of pride, for he had managed to keep his record intact thus far, and hoped he would be able to continue the practice. He had no idea how long it would take for the Queen Patrol to come back – there was no way of knowing if they were even on their way back at that very moment, or how long the journey would take – but he was determined to wait. He would sit in his same old spot every morning until he saw her shining eyes again, until he was dazzled by that smile. It didn't matter how long the wait took, how many mornings it would be before he saw her again. The Queen Patrol might even return without her, might try to tell him that she would never be coming back, but it wouldn't matter. He would wait right there forever, for as long as it took, and nothing would dissuade him. Eventually she would come back, with two or three or even four kits, and they would be a family. He would raise them like they were his own, treat her like a princess, and everything would end perfectly, just as he had promised.

He did not like making promises, not lightly. There were very few that he could still remember, and none that he thought he had properly upheld. Moons ago, he had promised that he would be a noble warrior, that he would be worthy of his name, but in his heart of hearts, he did not believe that had happened. He had failed Hailpaw when the little tom needed him most. He had not been as attentive to Whitewhisker as he should have, back when the pale tom was his bumbling apprentice. He had slept through the most recent attack on the Clan, wherein three noble warriors had been killed. Most of all, he had let her be injured, set upon by some filthy beast when she was weak, vulnerable, and alone. They hadn't been mates then – she hadn't been his 'responsibility' – but she had been his friend, and he had let her down, even if there was no way he could have been there to protect her.

But this promise was different. This promise was something else entirely, something he _knew _he could uphold, something he _had _to, for her sake. Featherstripe was splintered and afraid – or she had been when she'd left – and he wanted to make sure she knew that he would always be there, would always be her constant. He wanted her to know she'd never be alone or vulnerable or weak again.

He tilted his muzzle upwards, towards the sky, and blinked with surprise. The sun was already almost completely overhead, moving on its ancient path while he had been lost in his thoughts. It wasn't truly morning, not anymore, and that meant his daily vigil was at it's end.

He rose to his paws, and shook off his coat, dismissing the light frost that had developed over him. His stomach gave an insistent, groaning gurgle, and he picked his way over to the fresh-kill pile, grabbing a tiny finch to stave off the hunger pangs.

He curled up on the outskirts of camps, letting the slender branches dapple his pelt with shadows. Even as he ate, his golden eyes were fixated on the camp's entrance.

He watched it on and off for the rest of the day, and when night fell, he retired to his nest, eyes tracing the moon as he ducked into the den. Silently, he wondered what she was doing, where she was, if she was full, if she was safe, if she was thinking about him, if she was watching the moon too. The thoughts tickled his mind for only a little while, before he succumbed to sleep: morning eighty-three awaited him, after all.

Miles away, she stared up at the moon too, watching how the silver light dappled her paws, ran over the backs of her kits like a kind caress. She curled around them more tightly, protectively, and closed her eyes, imagining a russet sentinel with golden eyes waiting to welcome her home. Eighty-three mornings away was eighty-three too many, but she knew each one brought her closer to him again, and that was all that mattered.

**AN: You owe me a Jaci piece, bra. :I**

**(And of course he ends up losing anyway, cuz Foxy steals Petalkit**

**good try, bro, good try)**


	45. 44 Willpower

**AN: Here we see part of the ending of THE CHOICE. Fetter's plan was to die at his son's paws, but this did not happen, obvs. This is a few days after that all went dowwwn.**

**44. Willpower**

He dragged himself on, limp jaw flopping with each step. His breathing was tight, but it had been for days; parts of him had been crushed by his son's onslaught, but it had not been enough to kill him. Nothing had ever been enough to kill him, not when his body clung to life like a starving cat to prey, a kit to its mother, a moth to flame. That was how it had always been, as far back as he could remember.

But things were different now.

Every part of him was screaming, not only in agony, but with fear. Every instinct he had was urging him to turn back, to flee, to find grass underneath his paws right now instead of the city's grit. But he forced himself to keep going, forced himself to keep placing one paw in front of the other on his death march.

That's what it was. There would be no escape this time. There couldn't be. His plan relied entirely on his death, because he was going to die either way. His injuries were severe; he knew that without having to see them. He had all but been destroyed by his son…but Shackle had held back at that last moment, refused to be used again, and had left him on the ground to gasp his last.

He hadn't. He had gotten to his feet, limped to safety, and dreamt. He had dreamed of _her, _Burr, with her green eyes that were dull and keen at the same time. Burr was not an intelligent cat, but it seemed at some moments as though she understood things far better than he ever could. And yet, she had been used and tossed aside, just as Castion had used him. They had been alike in that way, and that was why when her duties were done, he had told her to go. He had lied, told her that Castion had ordered her away, far away. Killing her would have been far easier, he knew that…and yet, he had not.

It was the only act of mercy he could remember, throughout his years. Selflessness was alien to him. He had seen few examples from others throughout his life, until he had met Alifair. She had been different, a bird of another feather altogether. She had nursed him back to health, risked her own life numerous times to bring him Shackle, had stood by him even after learning his true identity. It had puzzled him, befuddled him, and she too had entered his dreams after Burr, even though he knew not what she truly looked like.

It had been the first time since he'd been blinded that he had dreamed of images, and that had made it all the more powerful. Somehow – he could not explain it – he knew Burr was alive, just as he knew that Shackle had not died out there in the cold, frozen as he had been. Someone had saved his son, just as Alifair had saved him. _Someone _thought Shackle was worth something, and perhaps that was enough.

His entire life, he had been driven by the need to survive. He had come from nothing, had learned to kill to protect himself from a young age, had witnessed all the horrors the city had to offer. Any keenness of mind or mercy he might have felt had always been crushed by that primal half, the half that said _I will endure because I must, _the half that stood by _I must always come first, because no one else is going to look after me. _

But Alifair had, and perhaps that made all the difference.

It was after that dream that he had devised his new plan. It was nothing like the first, and yet, it was oddly the same. Both were supposed to culminate in his death; he could only pray that this one would. For the first time in his life, he had quashed that primal half, had chained it and bound it deep within himself. At first he thought it was not possible - it had taken all the willpower he could muster – but he had done it.

And here he was.

"Gramps!" came a loud call from behind him, and he stiffened, not turning around. He heard the smack of paws against the earth behind him, as a young tom raced to greet him.

"What are you doing out here, old-timer? I don't think I know you, do I?" the tom asked, circling around to Fetter's front. He heard the tom suck in a sharp breath, heard a faint whimper of horror as the tom set eyes on his ruined face. "By the gods…."

"I need to speak to Castion," he rasped, forcing the words out. The tom was quiet, still frozen with shock, and Fetter let out a low hiss, lacking the strength to say much more.

"I-I think we're supposed to be on the lookout for someone like you," the young tom stammered. "The pelt's right, and the eyes…but gods, you've been to Fel and back, haven't you?"

He paused for a moment longer – still staring, Fetter guessed – before he seemed to shake himself. "You're in luck, though. Castion's making his rounds today. I think he's supposed to be pretty close, actually…if you hurry, we might be able to—"

"Lead me."

"R-right, okay. This way. Just listen for my steps." The tom began moving forward, and Fetter trailed after him. He could still feel the younger tom's eyes on his pelt, and heard him murmur, "By the gods, how is he walking? He looks like he should be dead…."

He should be, probably, but even now he was able to keep his body moving, floundering through the motions. Death would catch up to him soon enough, his puppet strings would be cut, and oblivion would be a breath away.

He couldn't keep track of where they were going, only felt the ground grow rougher underneath his paws – an unkempt road, he guessed, one rarely used – as the tom trotted ahead of him. And then, the tom stopped, and Fetter caught the scent of more cats on the breeze, one of which was bone-chillingly familiar.

"C-Castion, sir!" the young tom chirped. "Sorry to interrupt you, sir, I'm sure you're very busy, but—"

"Bottle?" came Castion's slick voice. "Move over, let me see—"

His voice cut off suddenly, and Fetter stiffened. He imagined the golden tom's eyes flicking over him, that slick smile curling his muzzle.

"Fetter. You've returned." His voice was low, dangerously so, reminding Fetter of the dark mud lurking just underneath a rain-filled pothole, the kind that clung to one's fur for days at a time. "Thank you, Bottle. You did well, bringing him to me. If you wish, you may report to Cobalt, and tell him that he owes you a few mice for your trouble. I know your mother is ailing."

"T-thank you, sir," Bottle stammered. "Thank you very much. Uh…have a good day."

The younger tom scampered away then, his footsteps fading in Fetter's ears. He could smell Castion's scent strengthening, fainting to overwhelm him, mixing with the scents of his bodyguards to create a sickening aroma.

The fear rose within him like a tide, strong enough to bowl him over, and a tremor ran through him as every instinct urged him to bolt, as absurd as that was.

"I do not see Shackle," Castion said, his voice a dangerous, silky purr. "He wouldn't happen to be lurking nearby, now would he? I did tell you what would happen if you returned without him…or at all."

For a moment, he could barely breathe, flanks heaving. The primal whispers were in his mind again, urging him along. _Tell him he's alive, tell him you can lead him right to him, tell him you will do whatever it takes to get your freedom, tell him anything, anything at all…._

"He's not here." The words rushed out of him in a gust of air, where they hung for a moment, impossible to take back, impossible to recall. "He is dead."

The silence between them was a tangible thing. And then, came the hiss, kerosene about to ignite.

"He was wounded by Clan cats," Fetter choked out, despite the murmuring – _take it back, tell him your lying, tell him Shackle is alive and well and ripe for the picking, tell him you can lead him there, tell him he can have Jackal and Brand on a silver platter if that's what he wants, tell him he can devour them all and you won't care, won't stand in his way _– "and I ended him. A she-cat named Alifair helped me. She lives in the barn, and knew nothing of your orders, only did as I told her. But it's over now. Shackle is dead. Your son can be at peace."

"Don't talk about my son!" Castion snarled, something raw slipping into his voice. "The revenge was supposed to be _mine! _It was my jaws that were to cleave the life from his body, not yours or anyone else's! I own you, Fetter. Did you forget what I promised would happen?"

The murmurs rose into a frantic scream – _take it back, take it back now before he moves, before he causes you more pain than you could possibly imagine, spill everything before he spills your guts for you _– but it was too late. Castion's rage crackled in the air – it too was almost a tangible thing – and Fetter only rose his chin, willing himself to broadcast that same power he had showed Shackle, that inability to be overcome that he had always projected, that indomitability. He knew it was a mistake – every part of him knew that – but it was exactly what he needed, for at that moment, Castion sprang.

The tom tore into him with horrific force, crushing what had not been crushed by Shackle's paws. His claws sliced through flesh and fur, separated muscle from bone, tore deeply enough to make Fetter gasp. This was not the calculated damage he had endured before. Then, Castion had needed him alive. Now, the golden tom sought only to punish him, to rip him apart while leaving him gasping for breath.

And throughout it all, the screaming continued, his body pleading for its life in the only way it knew how. The beast within him howled, lashed out at its bonds, but with all his strength, he fought it back.

This was how it had to be. _This _was the fate he had been doomed to serve, the death he was left to lead. For once in his life, he would take the blows meant for another. He would place another above himself – one that was always meant to be less than a cat, less than dirt.

"_That's not what fathers do for their kits. That's not how they _behave!"his son had roared, and he had been correct. Fetter had never been a father. He did not know what the word meant. And he could hardly be called a father now, as he was torn into like a lump of meat. But it was enough, because it was all he had.

His life had never been intended for meaning. He had never been the cat others would talk about with admiration. He had sought to carve out a legacy for himself, as twisted as it had been, but that was fading now. Soon no cat would know what a servant was, or a Master, and that was for the best, for they had been flawed at the outset. No cat would remember the name 'Stone,' nor would they ever hear 'Fetter.' He had thought in his Choice would be the perfect act of rebellion, the way to die on his own terms and take his legacy with him, but it had not worked out that way, had never been meant to. Shackle had been saved – he knew not by whom, or why, only that there was at least one cat that cared for the tool meant to be unloved. _He _had been saved, by Alifair, and this was the only way he could repay that debt.

He would die on the streets as a common cur, for that was what he was, and he deserved nothing better. For once he had dared to rail against his primal half, seek the betterment of others instead of himself, and it would cost him his life. Justice served, perhaps. The wheel coming all the way around. Karma, for the pain and horror and agony he had inflicted.

These thoughts were of little comfort to him as Castion tore him to pieces, but they were all he had, and he clung to them like a cat adrift in a swirling river. He saw Burr again as she had looked on the day she had left, a bit shaken, eyes dull, but a dutiful, placid expression on her face as she had turned away from him and disappeared into the twisted city. He saw Alifair as he imagined her, young and beautiful and kind. He saw his son, Shackle, as he had been when he was a tiny kit – he had never seen him in true adulthood, and perhaps that was all well and good, for he did not think he would recognize the cat that had been his son now. He saw his first "mate," if she could be called that, the she-cat from the mountains who had barely spoken a word for most of their time together, and had disappeared as mysteriously as she had come once her duties were through. He saw his mother, although he did not know if it was a memory or a fiction he had woven for himself in brief moments of loneliness, her yellow eyes soft and gentle. They whizzed through his mind like burning comets, as Castion finally tired and decided to end it.

He ripped into Fetter's stomach, and Fetter felt something warm leave him, meeting the open air as it was never meant to. Soft, wet things slipped away from him, spreading gently over the pavement. The pain was all he knew, humming through his veins, the primal beast in his ears still screeching, as if there was any way to stop death from approaching now.

"I warned you." Only the slightest tremor in Castion's heated voice betrayed his exhaustion, his remaining rage, his teetering on the edge of despair for his son's final rest. "I told you this would happen, and you defied me. We will leave you here for the night. I will not sully myself in killing you. In the morning, a few Twoleg monsters will rush over this path…and they are not likely to avoid creatures they already believe to be dead."

Castion was wrong if he thought Fetter would last the night. He knew that he would not. He could feel it, an icy chill running down his spine in a way that had never happened before, the finger of death caressing his fur; by the time the monsters smeared him over the pavement, he would be long gone. But Castion could not see it, and Fetter would not let him.

_Tell him Shackle is still alive, and out of his reach, _the primal voice panted, weakening along with everything else, finally. _Torture him with that. One last act of defiance. _

But if he did, it would come crashing down, this tiny safehouse he had built for his son with his death, the little favor he had dealt Alifair in return for her kindness. The truth would be exposed, and everything would be for nothing, just like the rest of his life.

But he could not die without one last of defiance, despite all his willpower. As Castion turned away from him, his lips peeled back, his ruined, destroyed face twisting.

"You'll never crush it, her memory," he gasped, blood dripping from his jaws. "She'll always be...one step behind you. You can't…can't escape…she's out there still, always will be, so long as you…so long as you draw breath, she…."

His head sagged back against the pavement with a thud. He heard nothing from Castion, only the smallest pause in his step as the golden tom was rocked by his words. Burr was not a part of the boss's life, had not been for moons, but it was her memory that he so desperately sought to exterminate now. And so long as Fetter had implanted that idea – of her being alive, out there, watching him – he never could.

The golden tom, the Sun King, swept away then, taking his bodyguards with him. Fetter's flanks heaved as their pawsteps receded, until he was left with nothing but silence.

The voice had left him, finally giving up. His body's grasp on everything was weakening, and he welcomed it. There was no redemption for cats like him, there never could be, but there was an end to pain, and that was all he sought. He was not afraid of nothingness, of oblivion. It was all he had been meant for, all along. He deserved nothing better.

"_That's not what fathers do for their kits. That's not how they _behave!_"_

He had never been a father. He had been a breaker, a crusher, a killer. He had been a symbol of authority, and an object of weakness. He had been a king to his sons and a pawn to the bosses. He'd held their lives while another had held his. He had been a greedy, conniving, torturous bastard, a slave to the will of survival. He had always accepted that, embraced it, if only to keep that voice quiet. He had known it would catch up with him, but the voice lived for the moment, and that was all that mattered.

But for once, he had quashed it. For once, he had let a different force rule altogether: _himself. _And while he had never been a father, not in the true sense of the word, he thought that – for the first time – he might have some inkling of what the word meant.

He opened his eyes for only a second, then closed them, as if he was going to sleep. He conjured them up, the only faces he truly knew, let them surround him, let himself sink into them as his breathing stilled, as the black blanket rose to claim him.

And the voice remained silent, throughout it all, as the king of pawns and pawn of kings succumbed to the final darkness.

**AN: He marks the first RP character of mine in TC that's died and will **_**definitely stay dead forever you hear me. **_**No more "presumed dead" for our dear Mr. Stone, bastard that he was.**


	46. 45 Who Am I?

**45. Who Am I?**

"Who am I?" he whispered to the night, the shining moon above his head that glowed like a gentle, motherly beacon. "I'm your worst nightmare."

It was melodramatic, perhaps a bit silly, but he was young then, still little more than a kit. There was no audience in mind, no one he was talking to in particular. He didn't have an enemy just then, but he knew he would eventually, for every hero had a villain to face. And when it was his turn, when he was staring down the murderer or kidnapper or thug that he was destined to slay, he would have the perfect line. It was just a matter of time.

His sister shifted beside him with a sleepy murmur, and he lowered his head to rest it on her flank, keeping her warm as their mother's tail flicked over their ears while she slept. The night was sharp, and spoke of bitterer, colder darkness's to come, but he couldn't hear them as he succumbed to sleep.

.

"Who am I?" he snarled at nothing, claws digging into the dirt as he stared down his imaginary foe. "I'm the tom that's going to make you pay."

It was too vague, not strong enough, but he didn't care. He was brimming with anger, humming with it, and had there been a real enemy before him, he probably would not have spoken to him at all, only moved to tear into him and rip the life from his body.

He heard his sister's pawsteps approaching from behind him, skirting like leaves over the snow, and felt her press her pelt against his.

"You're angry, and you should be," she mewed, tucking her muzzle against his shoulder, "but it doesn't really change anything. It doesn't change who we are, Amster, you know that. What happened in the past was moons and moons ago, and Momma loves us."

It was true. Their mother did love them, something he wasn't sure he would ever understand. How could she love them, two products of the worst thing that had ever happened to her? How could she love him, whose eyes were so much like his father's, the father that he had never known but not hated more than anything he could imagine?

"We're going to find him," he hissed, "understand? We're going to find him, and we're going to end him."

"Okay," his sister said, and while he wasn't sure if she wanted revenge too or was just going along with it to placate him, it was enough. His fur flattened, and he turned to give her a rough lick between the ears. She blinked up at him with blue eyes deeper than his own, and the faintest of smiles on her muzzle.

"It'll never happen again," she said. "Momma's safe now, and so am I, if you're worried about that. So long as you're here, nothing can ever touch us. You're the strongest tom in the whole world."

But where did that strength come from, he wondered? On which side of his family did it hail?

It didn't matter. No matter where he came from, he knew he was going to use it, was going to bend it to his will until his claws were buried in his father's throat.

. . .

"Who am I?" he grunted, blinking into the other tom's dark face, his own expression guarded. "I'm the one that's going to help you out, in exchange for a favor."

"A favor?" the other tom echoed, looking amused. "And what might that be?"

He ignored the question at first. "I don't care what you're here for. I don't care if you're on the right side or the wrong side, or what your issue with these cats is. But I'll help you out, you understand? I'll do whatever you like, besides killing, and in exchange, I'll need your help to sort things out later. I – we, I mean – are looking for a certain tom, and when we find him, we're going to kill him. The only problem is that he travels with a posse, and we can't defeat them all on our own."

"I see." The black tom seemed amused, and his gaze flicked to the she-cat standing beside Amster, her pelt barely brushing her brother's. "You're really with him on this?"

"I am," she said quietly, although her voice bore none of the intensity or conviction of her brother's.

The black prince laughed. "Alright then, whatever you say." His gaze flicked back to Amster, dancing with amusement. "We have a deal, then. You help me out here, and I'll make sure you get that tom eventually."

Amster dipped his head then, jaw set with determination, having no idea of the deal he had just made.

. . .

"Who am I?" he echoed, glaring down at the little chocolate tortoiseshell who grinned up at him, her eyes glinting with expectations beyond him. "I'm the cat who's going to knock you over, if you don't leave me alone."

He had no intention of doing such a thing – his mother had raised him to be a gentleman, after all – but she wasn't supposed to know that. He tried looking threatening, bristling his fur to make himself seem even larger compared to the tiny she-cat, but she only grinned, calling his bluff.

"Come on, then," she chirped at him. "Tell me. Keagan said your name, but not much else. Is that pretty she-cat your sister? Why are you with us? What do you want?"

"What I want is none of your business," he grunted, brushing past her, and grimacing as she trotted after him like an annoying flea he couldn't shake.

"Tell me," she said, drawing out the word until it was practically curling around his ears – _meeeee. _

"Shove off," he growled over his shoulder, irritated by her foolishness. But she continued to follow him, as she would for the entire time he spent in Keagan's company, the so-called Royal Crew. She would become something of a shadow, although he didn't know it then, a constant shape hovering just out of the corner of his eye, as annoying as her namesake. He would adapt to it, as he did most things, but he would never quite be able to rid himself of the urge to shake her, to knock some sense into her addled mind, and he would always hate himself for that.

. . .

"Who am I?" he grunted, baring his fangs at an imaginary foe. "I'm your end."

"Still practicing?" came his sister's voice from behind him, but he didn't turn to look. He only squinted ahead, imagining his father standing before him, seeing the brown fur, the milky blue eyes, the thick tabby stripes on his forehead and back.

"Can't find the perfect line, huh?"

"Give me a little space, Aisling," he growled. "I'm busy."

"I can see that." She moved in front of him, ruining his concentration, and his brief image of his father slid out of his grasp, replaced by her concerned eyes. "You're pushing yourself very hard, Amster. You should rest. Keagan has you running all over the place, and I know we agreed to help him, but—"

"I'm not tired," he snapped, then softened as surprise fluttered over her face. "Really, Ling. I'm fine. A little sleepy, maybe, but who isn't?"

She didn't smile at his feeble attempt at a joke; if anything, she seemed more worried, since he wasn't known for jesting. "I'm worried about you, Ammy. This isn't healthy. I feel just as bad for Momma as you do, but…Rudy might not even be alive, and you're working yourself to the bone. What if he's dead, or we can't find him? What then? What he did to Momma was inexcusable, yes, but you know she doesn't want you running around risking your neck for something silly like revenge."

"It's not just about that. What if he is still out there, still hurting other she-cats the way he hurt her?" His claws dug into the earth at the very thought, and he wished it was his father's pelt. "Someone has to put a stop to him, and if I get revenge while I do it, isn't that _good? _Two birds with one strike, and all that?"

His sister sighed quietly. "Alright, alright. Just don't let it consume you okay, Ammy? When all's said and done, I don't want to go home and have Momma not recognize you."

That was like a dagger to his heart, but he didn't show it, didn't allow even a flicker of the pain on his face. He only nodded, then looked past her, focusing again, crouching in preparation for a strike.

"Night, Ammy," she mewed as she walked away, but he only grunted in reply.

. . .

"Who am I?" he asked, then let out a mad, barking laugh, blood flying from his muzzle as he shook his head. "I have no gods-damned idea, Aisling. I'm not supposed to be _this._" He pushed the limp body at his feet with one paw. "Just some stupid Clanner running around where he shouldn't be, some idiot poking his nose where it didn't belong, and I…."

A tremor ran through him then as he saw the tom's dead face, his twisted muzzle still open in a cry of pain.

"Oh, gods, Ling," he choked out, a tremor running through him. "I killed someone. I killed him."

She moved towards him, reaching out with her tail, but he pulled away. "Don't. Don't touch me. What was it Keagan said? Blood always wins out? And he was right, gods-damn-it he was _right._"

"Ammy," she began, starting to placate him as she always did, to comfort him, but his blue eyes were wild and distant, like a storm-tossed sky.

"I'm no better than him at all," he said, "no better than the rest of those monsters. I _killed _someone, I killed—"

"It was an accident—"

"An accident? This doesn't happen by _accident. _I did it and I meant to and I'm just like him in the end, just like….It's everything I was ever afraid of, losing control, letting the monster out….And just like that, it is out, and I can't…how could I face him now? How could I take any sort of revenge without being a monster myself?"

His bloody claws gripped the ground, tearing it up in his franticness.

"Then don't take revenge. Forget all about it. Come with me, and we'll find Momma again. We can pretend none of this ever happened, Ammy, please," she begged, but it was as though he could barely hear her, as if he was in another world altogether.

"Ammy—"

He wheeled around then, running into the darkness. She was after him like a shot, tearing up the forest floor, but it wasn't enough to catch up to his madness. The forest engulfed him without a trace, and she finally came to a stop, flanks heaving, letting out a final yowl of desperation.

. . .

"Who are you, eh?" the milky-eyed tom squinted, a leer curling his muzzle. "Haven't seen you 'round these parts. Strong, strapping chap tho, ain'cha? What's your name, then, kid, who are you?"

"I'm your son." There was no anger in his voice, no accusations, only cold certainty. He stared at his father without a trace of emotion, watching surprise and confusion flit over his face.

"My son?" Rudy echoed, bemusement coloring his voice. "From who?"

"My mother's name is Speckledown," he sad, raising his chin, although there was no need; he was a bit taller than his father, although not by much.

Rudy still seemed puzzled, and that was enough to send a faint spark of anger over his pelt. After all he had done, he couldn't even remember her name.

Then, a light came on, and the older tom grinned. "Ah. Ol' Specs. She was a sweet one, I can tell you that. So, what? Did she tell you to come seek me out, eh? Always wondered where she ran off to."

The blatant lie clawed at his ears, and that was too much. The ice he had carefully constructed splintered, and with a snarl, he launched himself at his father.

Like a tide, Rudy's cronies moved forwards, moving to protect their boss, but it didn't matter. By the time they reached Amster and tore him away, by the time their fangs and claws tore into him, his eyes were already glowing with triumph.

"Who am I?" he asked, as the light in his father's eyes died, moments before he himself was rent apart. "I'm the bastard that killed you."

**AN: Basically a hypothetical past-tracing of a cat that I haven't rped yet (Amster's mine, Aisling belongs to Shimmertail), but will soon. The first two bits are canon, I think, but the rest is all speculation. Silly hypotheticals. :3**

**Also kinda wanted to experiment with telling a lifespan in a (relatively short) one-shot.**


	47. 46 Idol

**46. Idol**

He trotted along the side of the road, pace brisk, eyes all agleam as he took in the rows and rows of houses. He had heard of this place before many a time; they called it the 'burbs, where almost all the kittypets in the city lived. He'd heard once that forest cats looked down upon kittypets, but city cats envied them – free food, free water, free shelter, what wasn't to like? – and when he was younger, he had sometimes imagined what life would be like behind glass.

"You'd be the perfect little scrap for them to pick up," his mother would say as she ran her tongue over his soft ginger fur. "Haven't grown into your paws yet, bright fur, eyes like stars. Young and impressionable and loving. They'd adore you, kiddo."

But he'd always reply that he could never go off and be a kittypet without her, and she would smile and pat his head and tell him he was a good boy, a sweet thing. For awhile, that had been enough. But curiosity had grasped him eventually, as it did all the proverbial cats, and so he found himself walking down row after row of houses that all looked eerily similar.

He was brave enough to peek into a few windows, and beheld even more marvels: Twolegs of all shapes, sizes, and colors – he thought it was interesting, how they didn't have fur but still managed to look so different – atop all their lavish furnishing, and, of course, other cats. Most of the kittypets he saw paid him no heed; he was just an outsider to them, one of a hundred faces that might poke up in their window with a bemused expression. And, in truth, it was not so much the kittypets that interested him as it was the houses in which they lived.

He would find the perfect house, he decided, one that was long and flat so that his mother would have no stairs to traverse, one with a lovely garden with sweet-smelling flowers for her to enjoy, one with bright neighbors that he could befriend and adventure with. And he would bewitch the Twolegs that lived there, make them fall in love with him so deeply that they wouldn't mind taking in an elderly she-cat at all.

It was a silly plan, a naïve one, but he was young then and it seemed like the world was full of open doors and opportunities to be snatched, if you only smiled wide and hoped hard enough and worked until you reached them.

However, on that particular day he was rapidly growing tired, bored of looking at house after house that didn't quite suit his needs. He was about to turn back and head home, back to their abandoned Twoleg nest, when a voice rang out behind him,

"Hey! You! Turn around!"

Surprised, he immediately complied, and blinked as he spotted a ginger shock of fur sitting atop a fence post, peering at him with narrowed green eyes.

"Oh," the tom said after a moment, and it seemed to Bottle that disappointment crossed his face. "Never mind."

"Do you need something? Sir?" the young tom hedged, not wanting to disappoint, but the ginger stranger only shook his head.

"Thought you…thought you might be someone else. That's all. But you're too young. He would be…oh, I don't know how many moons. Older, that's all."

Bottle blinked, a little perplexed. The ginger tom turned away from him, clearly signaling that he was free to go, but the youngster was intrigued; most of the kittypets he had seen were indoors, but this one – who was decidedly too plump to be a city cat – was in his yard, unattended, as if there was no risk of him running off at all.

_Must have a good home, _Bottle thought, eyes drifting towards the Twoleg nest, and he smiled to himself; it was short and flat, and although he could not see through the fence, he was willing to bet the yard was beautifully decorated with plenty of flowers and soft mosses and perhaps even a tiny, sparkling pool.

It wasn't just the home that interested him, however; there was something about the ginger tom, some sort of caginess despite his plump and contented exterior, that drew Bottle in, like a moth to a flame. He drifted closer, wanting to hop up beside him, but not quite daring.

"Who didja think I was?" he meowed, curious despite himself. "Maybe I can help you find him. I know lots of cats in the city. Ma says I have a knack for making friends." She also said he stuck his nose where it didn't belong, but he decided that in this case, if he could be helpful, it was acceptable.

The kittypet only shook his head. "Doesn't matter. He's probably curled up at home with his mother. As you should be, I think. You look a little young to be out on your own. This isn't a rough part of town, or anything, but you have to be careful."

"I was just lookin' at houses," he replied with a smile. "Trying to find a good one. My name's Bottle. My ma says it's for my eyes. They're bottle-green. Yours are too. Your name isn't Bottle, though, is it? Kittypets usually have special names."

"They call me Sparky," the kittypet said, and Bottle got the impression that it hadn't always been so, that a long time ago he'd had a different name entirely.

"Sparky," Bottle repeated, then nodded. "That's nice. Sounds kinda…I don't know, dangerous. Sparks are dangerous. Bottles aren't, though. Sometimes I wish my ma had named me something cooler – Flame, maybe. Or Rocket – I've heard that name before. Rocket sounds cool, right? Rocks are brown, though, so it probably wouldn't suit me."

To his credit, the kittypet endured Bottle's rambling, but the young tom could see he was becoming a bit irritated; his tail flicked from side to side against the fence like a snake, and Bottle's ears flattened.

"Sorry. My ma says I flap my gums too much."

"Your mother sounds like she has a lot to say as well."

He brightened. "Yeah. She knows all sorts of stuff. She's been everywhere in the city, talked to a lot of different bosses. She tells me stories about them sometimes, but I think she gets them confused. Once she told me Castion used to have a lieutenant, ha! You believe that? He's too strong for one, I think. And this other time, she told me about these rebel cats that rose up against some boss – Tommy, I think, or Todd, something like that – and cast him out. But that could never happen. They'd never be strong enough to take on a _real _boss, right?" He smiled. "I forgive her, though, because she tells them all really well. My ma can be real convincing. And sometimes when she finishes, she'll forget that we already made dirt and stuff, so then I get to go outside and sniff around some more before bed. Those are the best days."

He saw something flicker in the older tom's eyes – pity, although he didn't know it then – and Sparky nodded. "Sounds…sounds like a good time. Your mother's lucky to have a son that cares about her so much."

"Don't all sons care about their mas?"

"Well…." Sparky shuffled uneasily. "Yes. But sometimes it can be hard to show that. Sometimes they want something for you, and you want something else, and you just can't see eye-to-eye no matter how hard you try. You understand?"

Bottle was mystified, but he nodded anyway, not wanting to appear stupid or ignorant. Sparky seemed to catch the lie, and he smiled, although it was not a happy one.

"Do you two get enough to eat? Does she hunt for you, or…?"

He puffed out his chest. "I do all the huntin'. I'm not very good at it yet because I jump too quick, but someday I'll be the best. I'll bring home a dozen mice for dinner and we won't have to worry about hunting at all for awhile."

"Whose territory do you live in? Some bosses provide for the elderly in their care, if their prior service was good enough."

He blinked at that, having never considered the possibility before. "I dunno if Cobalt does that…but he's under Castion now, so he might have to. Castion is nice, I think. Sometimes." He frowned. "How do you know about that, if you're a kittypet?"

Sparky shifted again. "Word gets around. That's all."

That was good enough for Bottle, paired with the older tom's calm, almost lazy tone; he took a minute to marvel at a tom so well-informed despite his kittypet status, and silently wondered what mysterious contacts and agents he might have roaming the streets.

_Could he be a boss in disguise? _he wondered, eying the kittypet with mild amazement. _Or is he just that smart? I bet he knows all the ins and outs. I bet he knows _everything. _And, maybe if I can prove myself to him, he'll be able to teach me. Then I can whisk Ma away to somewhere beautiful like here, where we'll never have to worry about food or water or a roof over our heads every again._

Remembering himself, he grinned. "Well. I'll have to check and see about that, then. It would be really good if I didn't have to try and hunt every night. Ma doesn't eat much, especially now that I'm growing, but it worries me when she gets thin."

Sparky's eyes darkened. "Wait here a minute, Bottle," he said, and before the younger tom could object, he had hopped off of the fence, disappearing behind the dull brown barrier. Bottle tried to squint through the cracks in the wood, but couldn't make anything out; as the minutes ticked by, he reared onto his hind legs, but of course was too short to see over the slats of wood.

Then, there was a dull thud on the other side, and Sparky sprang back onto his post, a sparrow swinging from his jaws. He dropped it, narrowly missing Bottle's head. "There you go. It'll take you awhile to get back, if you're in Cobalt's territory. This way you won't need to hunt, too."

Bottle was taken aback by the gift, but he beamed up at the fire-furred kittypet, dazzled by his generosity. He couldn't remember the last time anyone in the city had ever give him or his mother a gift. Obviously the kittypet could afford it, but it was special nonetheless. "Thank you, sir! Ma will really appreciate this, I know it."

Sparky flicked his ear uncomfortably. "Don't call me sir, please. Just Sparky's fine. And you're welcome." He looked over his shoulder, as if he had heard something within the house. "I've got to go, and you should be heading home too, if you don't want to be walking in the dark. Goodbye, Bottle. Good luck."

"Thank you, si—Sparky." Bottle grinned. "I'll come back soon, and let you know how things went with Cobalt."

"Alright." Sparky moved to hop back into his yard, then paused, glancing back at the younger tom once more. "It's Copper that I mistook you for. He's a young tom, a little older than you, I guess…or maybe a lot older. It's been a long time...I don't know what he looks like now, but he used to be a tiny thing, with ginger fur and the brightest green eyes I had ever seen." He smiled, and for a moment, real light came into his face, erasing the wariness and disillusionment that had been painted there before, however subtly. "He's a kittypet too, living with his mother. I haven't seen him in a long time, and he doesn't know where I live now, but…I'd like to see him again, some day. When he's old enough to understand."

_Understand what? _he wondered, but of course it wasn't his place to ask. All he wanted to do was please the flame-furred tom, to return the kindness he'd been given. And then, perhaps, Sparky could help him figure it out, figure out how to beat the city and win everything he wanted for those he cared about – an impossible task, of course, but he had no inkling of that.

"I'll ask around," Bottle promised, before picking up his sparrow. "Thanks again, Sparky. I really 'preciate it."

The ginger tom only dipped his head, before disappearing behind the fence; Bottle heard his pawsteps leading away, and the little tom turned, trotting back towards the street with a spring in his step, mind already abuzz with plans.

He'd never had a father, never really known what the word meant, but that night, while he curled up into his mother's pelt, he imagined what it might be like to have two cats around him instead of one, to have darker ginger fur mixing with his mother's golden-and-white, to have a deeper voice wake him up in the morning. And, rather privately, he thought that the ginger kittypet – the tom who seemed to have it all figured out, the best place to live and the best place to sit and the hierarchy of the city – would be the perfect tom to fulfill the position.

**AN: Bottle is this absolutely adorable rp guy I've come to love (we saw him in Willpower, although that's about 6-8 moons in the future from this) even though I've only had him a few days, haha. This was supposed to be wrapped up in one neat little package, but I might make it a bit of a mini-series, like Cast Away/Emotions/Questions. We'll see.**

**We've heard of Sparky before (under a different name) but haven't actually seen him.**


	48. 47 Unseen

**AN: Continuation of Bottle's story!**

**47. Unseen**

Trepidation curled in his belly like a snake as he padded towards Cobalt's hideout. It had once been an old warehouse, years ago, and now hung open and empty, like a skeleton. Most of it had been gutted by the Twolegs when they moved out, leaving the concrete floor bare, save for the gray pillars supporting the enormous structure, and a few conveyor belts they couldn't get rid of. It was atop these that Cobalt had decided to plant himself and his nests, so that he could look down on his subjects with some amount of pride. Privately, it seemed a bit silly to Bottle, as the advantage was only a foot or two, and there wasn't much for the dark tom to look over anyway; few cats lived there because there was no where for them to sleep unless they created their own nests, and most had somewhere else to rest their heads. Still, it pleased Cobalt, and he would be more inclined to listen to Bottle if he was happy.

Cobalt only had guards near the actual doors, so the ginger tom was able to avoid them by slipping in through one of the broken windows, narrowly avoiding cutting his paws on the sharp glass. He had no desire to try to explain himself to them; they terrified him, honestly, with their enormous size and girth.

He glanced around, trying to figure out which belt Cobalt was on – he tended to bounce around – before spotting the tom's absurd nest near the west side. It was piled high with scraps of blankets and old pillows he'd probably stolen from empty Twoleg nests all over town. It looked silly, but Bottle bet it felt heavenly to lay on, and that was all that really mattered.

He moved towards the black tom with caution, half-expecting one of the cats inside the warehouse to spring at him and stop him, but none moved. He was clearly not a threat, as young and scrawny as he was, barely more than a kit.

Cobalt was snapping at some she-cat as he approached, and it took him several moments to even notice Bottle. When he did, his blue eyes narrowed, and he hissed, "Who are you? What do you want? I'm busy, kiddo. If you don't have something important to say, then beat it."

Bottle quailed – what he wanted to ask was hardly important to a city boss – but he thought of his mother and her kind eyes, and plucked up his courage. "G-good afternoon, Mister Cobalt. I don't want to bother you, I'll be quick. I just wanted to ask you about something I heard, about you maybe giving away food for older cats…." He winced as the words popped out of his mouth – it sounded to pathetic, asking for handouts – but there was no other way to put it. He and his mother needed help, plain and simple.

"Giving away food?" Cobalt sneered. "I don't know where you've heard that, but I intend to do no such thing."

Bottle's ears flattened. "W-well, I was just thinking…it's something that Castion does, so…."

At that, Cobalt's eyes sparked with anger. He had not been under Castion's rule for very long, and the Sun King's style was still chafing him. He bared his fangs at Bottle, and the ginger tom shrank back, eyes wide with fear.

"I'm _not _Castion, if you haven't already been able to tell," the black tom snarled. Bottle's eyes quickly dropped to his paws, unable to stand the tom's blazing blue eyes. Above him, Cobalt hissed again, rasping his tongue over the white patch on his chest as he forced his fur to flatten.

"_However_," the boss said grudgingly, "Castion does have such a policy in place, although I haven't flashed it around. Provided that your mother was of some help to us in the past, she's entitled to certain benefits. What's her name, boy?"

"Lily," Bottle said, but his heart sank as Cobalt frowned, trying to place the name. Lily had come into Cobalt's territory when Bottle was only a few days old, and she'd done little more than sit in the apartment since then.

The black tom shook his head. "I don't even know who that is, so as far as I'm concerned, that means she's done nothing for us. Go on home and tell her no."

"B-but…she can't hunt anymore, and I'm not any g-good at it," Bottle stammered, ears pinned against his head. "Please, sir, is there anything you can—"

Cobalt beared his fangs again, temporary calm slipping away. "What did I just say? She hasn't done anything for us. Far as I'm concerned, she's invisible, and so are you. Get out of here, before I throw you out."

Having no other choice, Bottle fled.

. . .

"Ma?" he called as he entered the apartment, ears still smarting from Cobalt's tongue-lashing. The boss's words had been ringing in his head the entire way home. _Far as I'm concerned, she's invisible, and so are you._

"Ma?" he said again, more insistently this time as he stepped carefully over the ragged carpet. "Did you ever do anything for Cobalt? Or Castion, maybe?"

Farther into the apartment, he heard a laugh, and he felt a wave of relief crash over him as he turned the corner and saw her perched on their old, ratty couch, looking at him with amusement.

"Castion?" she said, and laughed again. "Oh, don't be silly. You know I'd never work for that fleabag. He doesn't have a future, hun. He'll topple soon enough." Her voice lowered. "Come here, now. We need to talk."

His ears pricked and he frowned with confusion, but he obeyed, hopping up after her. His mother's eyes were curiously bright as she looked at him, and they glimmered with a sternness he didn't quite recognize.

"I saw you," she informed him. "You know you're not supposed to be over there, where the kittypets live. You know that's off-limits, Blaze."

"I'm sorry, Ma—wait, what?" He blinked at her, perplexed, and she chuckled again.

"Oh, don't give me that look! I _saw _you, hun. Saw you meeting that she-cat – she's a pretty thing, don't get me wrong, but you know how your parents feel about that sort of thing. It's dangerous, wandering off on your own."

He only stared at her for a moment, thrown for a loop, before he realized what was going on. She had lost herself again, gone down some route in her memories. She was confused, that was all. It had first happened a few moons ago, and had only occurred a few times since then, but it still sent a prickle of fear down his pelt when she stared at him and had no idea who he really was.

She'd come back to herself, though, he felt certain. She always did. He just had to help her find her way.

"Ma," he said, his voice gentle. "I'm not Blaze. I don't even know who that is. I'm _Bottle, _remember? Your son."

She reached out with one paw, prodding his nose gently. "Don't be silly, hun. I don't have any kits. Probably never will, either. I'm getting old, you know. Hard to believe, but it's true. That's alright, though. I've always loved looking after you and your sisters, you know that. But back to business. You can't go wandering over there anymore, okay? The kittypets seem harmless enough, and they probably are, but if something happened to you on the way…if you were attacked or caught…." She shuddered. "You know what would happen. And besides, it would break your mother's heart to see you with a kittypet she-cat, pretty or not. You know she wants you to find someone here, someone that will make you stronger when you take over from your daddy. You've got to be smart about it, okay, Blaze?"

"Ma," he tried again, but she wasn't listening, only shaking her head.

"You mustn't try again. I'll see it, I'll know. Ol' Ismene is still pretty sharp, even now…and I _will _tell your parents if you go out again, understand? It's dangerous, hun, and I don't want anything to happen to you. Would break your folks' heart to lose you, especially since Comet…." She trailed off, and sighed. "I know you miss her. I do too. But running away won't help that. Your family needs you more than ever now."

He shuddered; it wasn't the first time she'd called herself by that strange name, Ismene. He had no idea where it meant or where it had come from; she had always been Lily to him.

_She's just confused, _ he told himself again, ears lowering. _Just a little lost, that's all. _

She went on as if he'd said something back, nodding once more. "I know. It's a lot of pressure for a tom your age, but I know you can handle it. You're stronger than you think, Blaze, and your parents care about you very much. Everyone wants you to succeed." She reached out to touch his nose with her own, the kind smile flickering over her face again.

"But you do agree, don't you? You mustn't see – what did you call her? Honey? – again, do you understand? You've got quite the life ahead of you, hun, and you can't let it go to waste. You'll chase out that rat Castion and everyone else someday. It's your destiny. I know it." She rose to her paws with a wink. "That's all I wanted to talk about, hun. Take care, now, I'll see you later. Tell Brand I said hello, won't you?"

She nuzzled his muzzle again, still without recognizing him, before turning away and springing down from the couch.

She was headed for the door, and alarm rippled through Bottle's pelt; he could only imagine what would happen if someone else saw her while she was like this. He darted in front of her, cutting her off.

"Ma, you can't go outside," he said, and nudged her chest with his nose. "You gotta stay in."

She went on, as though he was nothing, skirting around him like he was a boulder in her path, and he moved to stop her again.

"Ma," he meowed, but she didn't even look at him. "Ma! Please, it's me, Bottle. I need you to…to wake up, okay? Ma?" He nipped at her shoulder, hoping to incite one of her games, but she only went on, nearly at the door now.

"Ma?" Panic entered his voice. It had never taken her this long to wake up. She'd never tried to leave before. "Come back, Ma. You've gotta come back. I don't even know who Blaze is, okay? Please…." His voice cracked right as she reached the door, sunlight dappling her muzzle. She paused for a moment, staring ahead sightlessly, before her muzzle finally tilted back towards him.

"Bottle," she said quietly, sounding distant, a little dazed. Then, she smiled. "Bott, baby, what's the matter?"

He wasn't sure whether he had woken her up, or whether it had been the sun, but he didn't care. He pressed his muzzle into her golden fur, hiding the thankfulness on his face. "Nothing, Ma. Nothing."

She turned back, rasping her tongue over his ear. "You're so silly sometimes. Did you have a good day? What did Cobalt say?"

He drew back, relief fading as he remembered the black tom's icy eyes. _Far as I'm concerned, she's invisible, and so are you._

"It…it was okay," he lied, unable to tell her the bad news when her green eyes were smiling back down at him with familiarity again. "He, uh…he said I should talk to Castion. I'll probably do that tomorrow. I'll make everything okay, Ma, I promise." He attempted a smile, and she purred quietly, rasping her tongue over his head.

"You're a good boy, Bott," she crooned, nuzzling him with as much tenderness as she had when she had thought he was Blaze. "I love you."

"I love you too," he murmured, leaning against her, pressing his ear against her thick fur. "You won't…you won't ever leave, will you?"

He knew she had no idea what he was asking, not really, but he still felt some small prickle of hope as she chuckled.

"Of course not, Bott. I'll always be here. I could never leave you, baby." She looked out through the open door, and frowned, as though she couldn't remember what she was doing so close to stepping through it. "Let's go back in, won't we? It's chilly out there."

It was a warm day, but he nodded away, trotting back to the couch with her and curling up next to her, resting his head on her flank. She yawned, resting her muzzle on her paws as though she intended to take a nap, but he couldn't quite hold back his curiosity.

"Ma?" he asked with caution. "Did you ever know someone named Blaze?"

"Blaze?" she echoed. "Where did you hear that name? Not from Cobalt, surely."

"Just...just from places. You know." He shifted uneasily, hating the lies, but she was too distracted to notice.

"Ah…yes, I did. But that was a very long time ago, well before you. He was the son of a city boss, an older gentleman named Caesar. He was supposed to take over running things, when his father got too old, but he disappeared and his sister took over instead."

"His sister?"

Lily nodded. "Brand was her name. She wasn't sweet like him. She was…ruthless, I suppose. But she had her moments of kindness too, if you dug down deeply enough to see them." She smiled at the memories.

"Did Blaze ever…meet anyone? Out there?"

Lily glanced down at him with surprise, and he avoided her gaze by staring at his paws instead. "I just heard…."

"Strange for the gossip to start up now, after all this time," she mused, but nodded. "Yes. For a little while, he used to meet up with this kittypet gal. She was a pretty thing, and I could see why he was interested, but…well. It was too dangerous, that was all. Cats like him had to be careful. It caught up with him, though. One day he disappeared, and was never seen again, leaving poor Honey and her kit behind – his son. Blaze's. I didn't know about him until much later, of course, not until Honey became rather infamous in our circles."

"Infamous?"

"She was a _spy, _darling. I told you this story, didn't I? About the rebels who took down Tobias? I'm pretty sure I did."

He remembered telling Sparky about them, and nodded. "You did. But you didn't mention _her._"

"Silly of me," Lily mewed. "Well, it was a bit of a secret, for awhile. She went looking for Blaze when he disappeared, and ended up falling in line with the rebels. She worked with them to get information to use against Tobias. I met him a few times, after the rebels joined up with Brand."

He frowned to himself, trying to make sense of it. "But…Brand was a boss too, wasn't she?"

"Yes, but she wanted to take down Tobias too," Lily explained, "so she decided to help them out. Not very many cats know that, though, not very many at all. She kept it a secret, you see, because if Castion ever found out…." She shuddered. "Oh, it would have been over in a heartbeat. But lucky for her, Tobias refused to tell his father anything, trying to take care of it on his own, and when he did end up falling, Castion was none the wiser about Brand helping out. _She _ended up losing control of things anyway, but that's another story….What was I talking about?"

"Honey," he prompted, and she smiled again.

"Oh, yes. Honey was a bit of a hero, a brave little kittypet trying to make the world better. She was invisible at first – who would suspect a tiny, sweet thing like her? – but it couldn't last. Tobias eventually caught her – he was clever, even though the cleverness was clouded by his ambition most of the time – and had her executed. I don't remember what happened to her son…maybe he disappeared too. I saw him once. Cute little thing. Rather like you, really. His name was something strange, something like...Clobber? I can't remember."

Something occurred to him then, and his ears pricked. "Copper?"

Lily beamed down at him. "Yes, that's it. See, I must have mentioned them before, and you just forgot, silly thing. That was his name. Little Copper. Wonder how he's doing these days, if he's still out there somewhere."

Bottle barely heard her, his mind whizzing along, trying to put the pieces into place. Copper had been Sparky's son, but that was impossible, because he had been Blaze's son, unless Honey had been with two toms at the same time. But that didn't make sense either, if she was a hero, a noble cat. So that meant Sparky and Blaze had to be….

His eyes widened, but Lily didn't notice, lost in her own memories as well. He sat up, wanting to run away right that moment, wanting to find Sparky – no, _Blaze! _– and to confront him, to see if it was true, to see if Blaze had been invisible all along, hiding right under the city's nose all this time.

But Lily brushed her tongue over his head again, settling him down, and he found himself leaning into her. There would be time to find all that out, time to see what was the truth and what was only his mother's imaginings. Right now, he just wanted to press his pelt against hers and be thankful that she could still see him, could still recognize him, because some part of his young mind knew it wouldn't last forever, that one day she would lose herself and never be able to come back, no matter how much he pleaded or cried or tried to make himself seen.


	49. 48 Just Try

**AN: Part 3! Grand finale!**

**48. Just Try**

If there had been a snake coiled around his stomach when he'd gone to see Cobalt, now that he was on his way to meet Castion, there was an entire nest of them churning and rolling in his gut. Cobalt had a sharp tongue and a mean streak, but he was easy enough to escape; Bottle and Lily lived right on the edge of his territory, after all. Castion, though, was different. It seemed there wasn't a place in the city that hadn't been touched by him in some way, and if he wanted you dead, you'd die, simple as that.

That was why Blaze seemed like such a marvel to him as he headed towards the Sun King's theatre. Blaze would have almost been Castion's enemy; he was the son of a rival boss, after all, and it had been his destiny to face off against the golden boss someday.

Until he had disappeared, seemingly without a trace.

The ginger kittypet was still swirling in his mind as he neared the entrance to the theatre, a hole in the wall shadowed by two guards that watched Bottle with dull eyes. This time there was no window to duck in; he had to face them, but he'd come prepared. It had taken him hours, but he had finally managed to catch a mouse, an offering to get him in the door. From there, he'd be on his own.

The guards didn't stop him, but he lifted his chin to show them the mouse just in case. The lobby was dull, and smelled faintly musty, but he didn't waste any time in it, trotting down one of the long, black corridors instead. They all led to the same place, the main auditorium, and the din within threatened to overwhelm him as he entered it. Cats milled about everywhere, hanging off of each seat, flanking the walls, lounging even on the large stage in front of the curtain.

"You!" shouted a nearby tom, sending icewater rushing into his stomach. The tabby tom strode towards him, and Bottle imagined he would know what the ginger tom was here for with only a glance.

"You haven't been here before, have you?" the pale tom growled. "You're not a hunter. Just paying tribute?"

Bottle gave an anxious bob of his head, trying not to betray the tremor running through his legs, and the tom's eyes narrowed.

"That way, on the right side of the stairs," he said, nodding in the appropriate direction. "Just leave it there. Castion appreciates your contributions. Go on, then."

The tabby tom turned around as someone meowed his name, and Bottle eagerly slipped away, running down the aisle towards the stage. He dropped the mouse on the pile – it looked pitifully small compared to the other catches, but his heart still clenched as he let it go, thinking of his mother's lean face – and took a step back, wondering what to do next. He realized he had no idea where Castion actually _was _inside the immense theatre. Behind the curtain, perhaps? He eyed it with unease, but took a deep breath, knowing he had to at least check it out. He didn't have any other options.

He was padding up the short stairs onto the stage, when someone growled a warning behind him.

"You don't want to go up there." He turned to find a white tom frowning up at him. "That's where the commanders sleep. They'll eat you alive." His chin rose. "I'm going to be one someday."

Bottle believed him; the white tom's yellow eyes glowed with determination and ambition so intense that made him shiver.

"Okay," he said quietly, creeping back down the stairs. "Um…do you know where Castion is, then?"

Surprise passed over the white tom's face. "Castion? What's he want with a runt like you?"

Bottle's ears flattened. "I just…I just need to talk to him. It's important."

The white tom seemed dubious, but shrugged. "The guards will filter you out, not me. He's up there." He tilted his head upwards, towards a balcony that Bottle hadn't noticed. "That's his box. Be careful, though. Unless you've got something important to say, he'll rip your head off."

Bottle's eyes widened at the thought, and the white tom seemed amused by his fear, his muzzle curling into a smirk that was decidedly Castion-esque. "Good luck."

The ginger tom mumbled a thank-you, before scurrying towards the box. There were no stairs leading up to it, but he discovered there was a dark corridor off to the side that presumably led up to it. He darted down the black hall, fear mounting with every step. By the time he saw the two guards sitting outside the curtain that shielded Castion's chambers from view, his heart was already in his throat.

He moved towards the guards slowly, almost slinking, his tail down low. A tremor ran through him with every step, and the guards certainly noticed, their muzzles twisting with derision.

"What do you want, pipsqueak?" one grunted, curling his lip to expose one rotten fang.

Bottle swallowed. "I-I need to talk to C-Castion."

The other laughed. "Look at 'im quiver! Kit's scared half to death."

"Should be," the first snorted. "Master Castion don't have time for you, kitto. Get out of 'ere before we skin ye."

Bottle shrank back, but his mother rose in the back of his mind again. He had to get some sort of help for her, _had _to. They'd starve, otherwise. There was no way he could hunt for the both of them, and she couldn't hunt anymore. He had to try.

"P-please," he said, trying to fight back the stammering. "I need to talk to him. Now. It's important."

The rotten-fanged guard snorted. "Important 'e says," he grunted, before rising to his paws, the threat obvious. "Git."

Bottle glanced between the two of them, as the second rose as well, his heart hammering in his chest. Then, throwing caution to the wind, he darted right between them.

This had obviously never happened to either guard before; their reaction was a second too late. They reached out for him, but their paws met nothing but air as he flew through the curtain, skidding to a stop as he met the city boss's sharp green eyes.

Castion paused mid-chew, staring at the young tom standing before him with bemusement, before flicking his gaze up towards the guards. Bottle only had time to open his mouth before they were on him, pinning him to the ground. Their paws pressed down on his spine and ribs with incredible force, and his nose was ground into the floor before he managed to turn it to the side. He found Castion's eyes looking down at him with something caught between confusion and amusement.

"We told you," one of the guards snarled in Bottle's ear, his breath thick and hot on the ginger tom's fur. A whimper escaped Bottle despite his best efforts, and he found himself struggling to breathe underneath their girth.

Castion swallowed, and very carefully set his meal aside on the curtain. He studied Bottle for a moment, before looking back to his guards, his expression carefully neutral.

"What are you doing?" he asked, voice level, and Bottle realized he was not being addressed; rather, the Sun King's gaze remained locked on the two guards.

"Sorry, sir," one growled. "He got through us. We—"

"I don't think that's what I asked. What are you doing, right now? Crushing every bone in this fellow's body? Come now. This is hardly becoming. Let him up."

Bottle went rigid with surprise, and it seemed the guards couldn't believe him either; it took them a moment to pull back. The young tom bounced up immediately, sucking in an eager breath.

"See? Not much more than a kit. Hardly befitting that sort of treatment…although I do suppose if any kits come to assassinate me, you'll have that handled." Amusement flickered over his face. "Go on, you two. We'll just have a little chat, I think." Bottle shrank back as the boss's attention turned to him. "Well? It must have been terribly important, for you to risk something like that."

Bottle looked over his shoulder, making sure the guards were retreating – sure enough, they were ducking back under the curtain, although one glowered back at him before disappearing – before taking in another deep breath, trying to steady his frantic heart. "Y-yes, sir. It is."

Castion tilted his head to the side, and Bottle realized he had the golden tom's – the _Sun King's! _– full attention.

He thought he might pass out.

"M-my mother is k-kinda sick," he said, stumbling over his words. "It's hard for her to hunt now, and I-I'm…I'm no good at it. I don't want her to go hungry, b-but I can't help, and Cobalt said he wouldn't…well, Ma never did anything for him, so he wouldn't help. A-and we live on the 'partments, r-right on the border, so I thought maybe…." His eyes sank down to his paws as his courage deserted him.

To his surprise, he heard a low purr of amusement. "Touching, to see a young thing like you brave the run over here for your mother. Don't you think it's touching, Pea?"

His head snapped up with surprise, and for the first time he realized there was a she-cat in the seat next to the city's king. She was tiny, and seemed to fade into the cushion itself, despite her golden pelt; her eyes were cast downwards and everything about her was pulled into herself, rather than extending outwards, as if she was trying to disappear from reality entirely.

Her eyes flicked up once – bright, startling green for one so invisible – and she gave Bottle the smallest of smiles before looking away again. "Yes. Touching." Her voice was whisper-soft, almost inaudible; he had to strain to hear it.

_She'd sound like Ma, if she was a bit louder, _he thought distantly, but Castion was speaking again.

"Such bravery should not go unrewarded, I think," he purred, "although, I must say, barging in here was not wise. You see—oh, what was your name? I didn't catch it."

He swallowed. "B-Bottle, sir."

Castion nodded and continued on, "You see, Bottle, I am a very busy cat. Quite a bit depends on making sure I have the privacy I need to carry out my duties – meetings, and the like. I can't let just anyone in here. You understand." The threat running underneath his words was unmistakable, and the young tom blanched, nodding as quickly as he was able.

"I understand, sir. I wouldn't have done it, it's just so important…."

"Of course. Everyone cares for their mother." His voice was smooth. "As I said, your bravery should be rewarded…but I can't just give food out to anyone who asks, now can I? We'd be out of prey quite rapidly, I think. I can offer you hunting lessons, and I think I will, but you need a more immediate fix, don't you? So, tell me, Bottle, what do you have to offer?"

His mind went blank at that, and he could only stare for a few moments, grasping at straws. What could he offer? He didn't know how to hunt, didn't know how to fight, didn't know anything that would be useful—

No. That wasn't quite true. He knew about Blaze. He knew where the ginger kittypet was lurking. He knew Brand had helped bring Castion's son now – something that was still gnawing at him, if the darkness behind his green eyes was any sign – and he knew that Blaze had been connected to Honey all along. He knew they had a son.

He had nothing else to offer, did he? Only those facts, those hints. But they would be enough, he was certain of it. They would be _more _than enough; it was information Castion's spies hadn't been able to bring to him, information that he couldn't get from anyone else but Bottle and Lily.

But if he told them, they would go after Blaze. They would hunt him down and drag him into some dark, frightening place, and he would never come back.

He couldn't do that, not after Blaze had been kind to him, not after he had given him advice and caught him prey and had told him about Copper. Not after Blaze had _trusted _him.

"I-I don't have anything," he mumbled, hating the tremor in his voice that threatened to give him away. "I'm sorry. There's nothing."

"Now, Bottle, that's just too bad." Castion's voice was still silky. "Are you sure? There's nothing at all you can think of?"

Bottle shook his head, not daring to speak again, and Castion smiled, although it did not reach his eyes. "Unfortunate. As I said, I can't just give out food without a thought. Everyone would be lined up then, don't you think? If you _do _want some prey for your dear mother, you might want to come back with something worthwhile."

Bottle's heart sank. He couldn't do it, couldn't go home to his mother's expentant face without anything. Helplessly, he looked to the tiny she-cat, and was surprised to find her watching him again. Her eyes softened as they met his.

"He's so young," she whispered. "Look at his eyes. Aren't they like Tobias's? If it was him standing right there, wouldn't you—"

Castion growled just as her voice broke. "That's enough." He sat up, and Bottle had to tilt his head back just to look at the boss's face. The boss's jaw clenched as he stared down at the ginger tom, but Bottle did his best to meet his eyes, trying to use whatever advantages he might have. Then, to his surprise, the Sun King nodded.

"You're right, my dear. He's young. Plenty of time for him to prove useful yet. Very well, Bottle. You may take two – only two, understand? – pieces of prey from the fresh-kill pile. One for you, one for your mother. And then tomorrow I want you to report to Cobalt, and tell him you are to be trained as a hunter. If you do well, you can become a permanent addition to his group, and then if you prove yourself there, you might be able to live here, in the theatre. Does that suit you?"

His eyes widened as he stared up at the golden tom, hardly able to believe his luck. Immediately he was on his paws, an ecstatic grin on his face. "Yes, sir! Absolutely! Thank you so much!" He looked to the small she-cat. "Thank you, Miss Pea."

"You'll call her Lady Portia," Castion said, a slight growl in his voice, but Bottle barely noticed, feeling his body hum with triumph. He'd done it! He'd done it for the both of them, for his mother and himself. Everything would be easier now.

In his delight, he dared to take a chance. "Might I ask one more thing, sir? Do you know where a cat named Copper might be?" If there was anyone in the city who would know him, it would be Castion, and there was nothing he wanted more than to make Blaze proud, to make him smile.

The golden tom took on a thoughtful expression. "Copper, Copper…the name seems familiar, but I can't quite place…." Then, abruptly, his eyes darkened. "Copper…wasn't that the name of the spy's….How do you know it?"

Bottle realized his mistake too late; Castion might not know about Brand's interference, but apparently someone had mentioned Honey to him before.

"I-I just heard it somewhere," he blurted, backing away. "F-from a friend."

Castion's tail flicked. "And what might this friend's name be?" he growled. "I would be _very _interested to learn how he knows Copper's name, when so few do."

"I can't remember," Bottle lied, but the falsehoods rang out in his ears as sharply as Castion's.

The boss's muzzle twisted dangerously for a moment, and he rose up, as if to move forward. Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the anger faded, slipping away like rain on the street, and he smiled again. "That's quite alright, Bottle. You can go, and don't forget your prey on the way out. Good luck."

He was surprised the tom relented, but decided not to waste the chance to escape, stuttering out another thank-you before he bolted, streaking down the corridor and into the auditorium. He blindly grabbed his two pieces of prey before fleeing, leaving the theatre far, far behind.

He didn't go home. He should have – he would think over it later and realize how stupid he had been not to – but he wasn't thinking then, only listening to his heart pound in his ears and seeing Castion's dangerous smile flickering in his mind.

His paws led him to Blaze's house, as if he'd known it all his life. He stopped by the fence, dropping his prey as if it was trash, and tried to yowl the tom's name. He was too short of breath, however, and could only wheeze for a few minutes before he finally managed to let out a shout.

It took several more before he heard a door slam. The grass behind the fence rustled, and the fence shook as a ginger streak flew up to perch on the top.

Blaze peered down at Bottle with curiosity, mixed with concern. "Hello, Bottle. What's the matter? What happened?"

It came tumbling out of him then, what little Lily had told him about Honey and Copper. Blaze's eyes widened further and further until they nearly popped out of his head, and when Bottle finished, it was all he could do not to collapse with exhaustion.

"She's…she's _dead?_" Blaze whispered. "No. No, it can't be. That's not right. Honey would never leave her Twolegs, not with Copper…not with him so young and fragile, and her…she didn't _know _the streets, how could she even survive a few days…why would she come looking for me? Why wouldn't she just…."

He stared past Bottle, barely seeing him. "I never thought…I thought she was always out there somewhere. I thought she'd just…just _wait, _or maybe find someone else that would make her happy…she deserved better than me, always did. She was so little, how could she….? Why would she even try?"

"My ma says she did it to make things better…for Copper and everyone else."

"Who _is _your mother? How could anyone possibly know all of…?"

"Her name's Lily," Bottle said, and when no recognition flared up in Blaze's face, he hesitantly, added, "sometimes she calls herself Ismene, though, when she gets lost."

"Oh," Blaze said, and then, "_Oh._" Worlds were contained in that one syllable, and Bottle could glimpse none of them. The ginger tom stared down at him with brilliant eyes that widened again as he put pieces together that Bottle couldn't see. "So you're…? Oh, by the gods."

Bottle opened his mouth to ask, but Blaze was already drawing back, shaking his head. His shoulders were slumped, and he suddenly seemed far older than any plump kittypet had the right to be. "She tried to tell me, tried to get me to back off, and now…Honey's dead and it's all my _fault._" He closed his eyes, grief etched into his face. "I was trying to _protect _her. I thought if I just disappeared, she would….But she was too stubborn, too brave, and I was too stupid to even consider that she might not stay hidden..."

"You're Blaze, aren't you? The almost-boss who disappeared?" Bottle asked, voice soft, and the kittypet flinched as though he'd been struck.

"Haven't heard that name in moons," Blaze rasped, his voice constricting. "Thought I could leave it behind, but I guess my dad was right. You can't run from destiny. You know, then? Of course you do. Ismene would have told you plenty…I should have guessed when you first mentioned her stories. She _loved _telling stories, even when we were too fidgety to listen…." He let out a ragged breath. "Yeah. I'm Blaze. The first kit, the only son, the one destined for great things, the one that could never measure up to the fate his parents had planned. The one that Ismene cared for the most, tried to warn. The one that didn't listen to her. The one that was snatched up by Twolegs one day, and sent far away – to another city entirely, he thought, but after awhile he caught on to the fact that it was the same one, just on a different side than he'd known. The one that decided maybe being a kittypet wouldn't be so bad after all, if it meant you didn't have any responsibilities or worries or cares, if it meant that the two cats you loved more than anything would be safe because no one could trace them back to you. The one who was wrong all along, apparently. I can't believe she's…."

He made a muffled sound of pain, almost a whimper, and Bottle's ears flattened as he watched the kittypet splinter before his eyes.

"If I'd known, if I'd _known _I would have come back, I swear," he said to someone who wasn't there, looking well above Bottle's head. "I wouldn't have left you if I thought there was even a chance you'd risk your neck trying to find me. You should have stayed where it was _safe, _should have kept Copper—oh, Copper. He might even be dead. I'll probably never see him again, never get to explain…."

Bottle took the opportunity to dive in. "But you can! You can try and find him right now! He's got to be out there somewhere, don't you think? Alive? Maybe even looking for you! You need to go and find him. You have to. Just try, won't you?" His eyes glowed with excitement. "There have to be cats that would still like you. My ma, for one. There gotta be others. And you can gather them all together and let them be your followers and become a real boss again, just like you were supposed to be! And with that many cats helping you, you'll find Copper for sure, and you can explain everything you want to him. And…and Ma and I can join up with you and we'll never have to talk to Castion or Cobalt or anyone else scary ever again, and things will be great forever. Don't you think?"

Blaze only stared down at him, uncomprehending. "What are you talking about? Do you think anyone would want to follow _me?_ I've been in hiding all this time. I don't know anything about the streets anymore – everything's different, all twisted up. I'm fat and slow and useless and…I don't _want _to be a leader. I never have." His ears flattened. "My father tried to push that on me over and over, but it wasn't _me. _This is me, a fat, slobbering kittypet with nothing to show for his whole life…with a dead mate and a son that probably followed." His shoulders slumped. "There's nothing to try _for. _It's over, it's been over for moons. I just didn't know it then."

"Copper _has _to be alive," Bottle meowed, feeling anxiety prickle his pelt; he had to convince Blaze, had to show him this was the right path to take. Everything would fall into place, everything would turn out perfectly, he just needed to _try. _"Castion sounded angry when I mentioned him, and he wouldn't have been if Copper was already dead. I bet he wants to find him—"

"Castion?" Blaze interrupted. "You mentioned Copper to _Castion?_"

"Yeah…I know I shouldn't have, but it just popped out, and he was angry at first but then he calmed down so—"

For the first time, Blaze saw the prey Bottle had brought. "You got those from him, didn't you? You ran all the way here after….You _idiot._"

Bottle flinched, eyes clouding with hurt, but Blaze barely noticed. "You think he calmed down just like that? You think he decided he didn't care after all? He sent someone after you, you dolt! He knew you'd charge right back to whoever told you about Copper in the first place…oh, gods, there's probably been someone watching this entire time." His eyes scanned the street, and Bottle tried to do the same, but there was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing out of place.

This didn't calm Blaze. If anything, it made him more anxious; his tail bristled, lashing from side to side as his claws gripped the wooden fence.

"They'll know everything now." Fear laced his voice, cutting into Bottle like razors. "They'll know where I am, they'll know _who _I am, and it's only a matter of time before they come and finish things once and for all…they might be reporting to him right _now, _oh gods…."

Bottle could see it slipping away right before his eyes, that perfect ending he had dreamed up, and he clutched at it helplessly. "Please, Blaze, you don't understand—"

"_You_ don't understand!" Blaze hissed with surprising venom. "You've lived cooped up with Ismene your entire life. You have no idea who you really are, no idea what the world is really like, no idea of _anything, _and you dare to tell me I don't understand? You came into my life out of the blue, you just dragged me through the deaths of my mate and son, you've exposed me to the one tom that hates me most, and you think I don't _understand? _I understand more than you ever will. There is no trying here. There's nothing to try _for. _The game was over moons ago. Castion's already won. The only thing I can do now is try to live through the night, because if he has it his way, I'll be dead before dawn.

"I can't stay here. I've got to get out—and you have to go too, Bottle. Stay away from Castion, do you hear me? Stay away from him and keep your mother safe. Don't tell _anyone _her real name, not a soul. This is so much bigger than you could even dream, and you don't even…." He faltered for a moment, his green eyes softened. "Gods, you look like Copper. And now I know why."

Bottle was perplexed, but he shoved his confusion aside, trying to push past his rising panic. Everything had gone wrong, everything had gone awry. He'd never intended to put anyone in danger, never thought Blaze could raise his voice so, never imagined he might be capable of so thoroughly breaking the kittypet with only one meeting. He opened his mouth to try and say something, _anything _that would change Blaze's mind, but it was already too late. Just as the kittypet said, the game was already over.

"Take your prey and go home," Blaze said finally. "Keep yourself safe, and stay out of their politics. Don't let them pull you in, Bottle, because if they do, you'll never get out. And say…and tell…." His voice broke again. "Tell Ismene I'm sorry, for everything. Tell her she was right all along, and if I could do it over again…." He shook his head. "Tell her I'll be okay. Goodbye, Bottle. Good luck."

With that, he disappeared back into his garden, and Bottle heard the rustling in the undergrowth as the hefty tom padded away. He waited, half-hoping he would come back, but when he did not, the black tide of panic rose up in him again, and he fled.

. . .

The next day, Blaze was not there.

Bottle went back to the garden, stomach uncomfortably full with Castion's prey, and waited in the same spot. He yowled a few times, but the kittypet did not appear, and finally he was forced to admit defeat, slinking back home.

He came back, day after day, but there was never any sign of the ginger kittypet, no sign at all. It was as though he had simply disappeared, swallowed up by the city, and Bottle began to face the fact that he was probably dead.

And then, one day, there were other cats lurking near the fences, cats he didn't recognize. He drifted closer to them, hugging the side of the house so he would not be seen, and listened as intently as I could.

"—Pictures all over the neighborhood," one cat growled. "Put up by his Twolegs. He's gone, for real, and ain't comin' back."

"Castion's going to be _pissed _when he has to call off the stake-out," another sighed. "But we'll find him. How hard can locating one fat tabby be?"

The others laughed at that, and Bottle slunk away, his heart a little lighter knowing that Blaze was still safe, at least for the moment.

Every night when he curled up into his mother's fur, he half-expected Castion's army to suddenly burst through their door and drag him away. He imagined the golden tom's smirk, his devilish grin as Lily shouted, trying to protect him. But Castion never came, even when Bottle reported to Cobalt for hunting lessons, although he would prove to be a terrible hunter. The Sun King had other issues to face, bosses to crush and rebels to break to his will. He had no time for a little tom that barely understood anything, who didn't even know how to play the game he was trapped in. And Bottle began to relax, by degrees, began to accept that he would never see Blaze again, wherever he had gone, and that Castion's politics could not be escaped, no matter how hard he might try. In the end, all he could do was endure like everyone else, give every day his best shot and pray nothing else in his world crumbled to pieces.

**AN: So, uh, not as uplifting an end as the last miniseries, with Kestrelpaw & co. Ah well.**

**I think we'll see Blaze again, some time after 50. That'll be awhile, though, since 50 won't be written until Chilled is done (adamant about this!), so don't forget about him. xD**


	50. 49 For Me?

**49. For Me?**

"I almost wish those cowards would show their faces," he growled, thick tail swishing from side to side as they walked through the still forest. Had he been anyone else, she would have silently scoffed at him for tempting fate. But he _wasn't _anyone else, so she only nodded, green eyes flicking over every leaf as they went.

To her surprise, he nudged her with his shoulder. "C'mon, no comment about that? Wouldn't you like to face off with 'em too? They've gone too far, you know they have. They almost ripped your pelt off last time."

She flinched at the memory, the murder in their eyes as they had lunged at her. It was never supposed to be that way, her versus them, but somehow the Twolegplace cats seemed to have lost sight of that. She hoped it hadn't been on purpose, prayed that Maggot hadn't put them up to that, but somewhere in the back of her mind she knew it was over. Carmelo was out, and so was she.

Still, she clung to that hope, that small chance that it was just a big misunderstanding. She'd talk to the marsh cats, they'd talk to Maggot, and everything would be fine again. She'd be safe, they wouldn't touch her, and she wouldn't have to admit that the ginger tom and little black apprentice had saved her life that day. She wouldn't have to admit that she was in the wrong after all, that she'd been on the wrong side for all this time.

She realized he was still looking at her expectantly, and she nodded. "Yeah. I'd like to see them again too." Her voice lacked conviction, and he sensed it, a frown furrowing his brow.

"What's with you and them?" he growled. "I know you're from Twolegplace, but that's not your _home. _This is."

At that, she had to laugh, a bitter sound that bounced off of the branches. "This isn't my home, Fireblaze. Don't try to pretend otherwise."

"It _is,_" he insisted. "Home is where cats care about you. Twolegplace doesn't care about you, but I…we do." His whiskers flicked with embarrassment.

"Yeah, Spiderpaw's _really _fond of me," she snorted. "Eaglestrike too."

"Eaglestrike likes you," the ginger tom said, then laughed. "Okay, okay, maybe he doesn't. You kinda messed that up when you almost ripped my ear off, way back when. It still hurts sometimes, you know." He gave her a playful grin, and she pretended to bare her fangs.

"Don't make me do it again," she said, but he only laughed again. It was a warm sound, boisterous, and something about it sent ripples of heat running over her dappled fur. It was a strange sensation, but not entirely unpleasant, and that worried her. She was supposed to think of Fireblaze as the enemy, she _had _to, but when she looked into his dancing eyes, all she could feel was safe.

"It won't get that close again, you know," he said, and she blinked, confused. "If we're attacked, I mean. I won't let them get close enough to hurt you, like in that last scrap." His eyes darkened. "I should have been watching out for you, but there were too many of them."

She couldn't quite wrap her mind around it, this protectiveness, this worrying for her safety. It wasn't something she had ever known; it was almost alien, as peculiar to her as a five-legged cat, and she had no idea what to do with it.

She looked away. "You don't have to protect me. I can do fine on my own."

"I know. But that doesn't mean I won't try." He was still smiling, but it faded as he saw her expression. "Come on, Leopardpaw. Do you really have to be so gloomy all the time? So hard on yourself? You're a good cat, Leopardpaw, I _know _it. Better than anyone, I think. C'mon." He moved in front of her, cutting her off, and irritation sparked in her eyes.

_What do you see in me? _she wanted to shout at him. _What do you see there that I can't? What makes you think you know me better than I do, better than anyone does? What is it that makes you insist on doing these things for someone as twisted and traitorous as I am?_

"Stop," she growled. "Quit trying to push for something that isn't there. I'm _not _a good cat. Just because we're in the same Clan doesn't mean you have to pretend I am."

"I'm not pretending." He let out an exasperated huff. "You're impossible, I hope you know that. But there is something there, okay? You were going to go after Redpaw for me, don't you remember? It would have gotten you into all sort of trouble, but you were going to do it anyway, just because it would have made me feel better. Doesn't that count as being good?"

She ducked her head, heat coloring her face. She didn't have a decent reason for having offered that. It had been a moment of weakness, that was all. "You're right. It was a foolish offer. I wouldn't have accomplished anything."

"But you were going to _try. _Look up here." He flicked his tail underneath her chin, and she grudgingly raised her head, meeting his gaze. His eyes were surprisingly soft, and that warmth fluttered through her fur again. "I'm not just making stuff up, okay? I'm _not. _Maybe you're right, maybe most of the Clan doesn't like you, but _I _do. Isn't that enough to make this your home? I'd do anything for you, Leopardpaw. You know that."

He had her hooked, alright. She was nothing but a fish in his capable claws, flopping helplessly, trying to wiggle out of a battle that had already been lost. She found those words, those admissions, bubbling in the back of her throat. They clamored against her tongue, crying to get out, and she almost let them.

Then, there was a rustle in the undergrowth. Their heads turned together, peering into the brush.

"Get behind me, Leopardpaw," he growled, unsheathing his claws, his pelt already bristling. If he had been anyone else, she would have shaken her head with disgust at the ludicrous idea of trying to protect her – her, the traitor, the city scum, the hapless pawn in the city's game – but he wasn't anyone else, he was the only cat who had ever cared about her, the only one who had ever seen anything in her beyond something to be used, and for that very reason, she had to expose the lies. She had to protect him, to ensure he wouldn't be hurt by her any more. She had to show him everything.

She took a step forward, ears pricked as the scent of the rogues washed over them. Fireblaze let out another growl, and attempt to get her to move back, but she ignored him. Their shapes appeared, dark tabbies dappled by the branches above their heads, eyes gleaming in the shadows, and she felt a prickle of fear.

_Just a misunderstanding, _she told herself. _He'll see. He'll see who you are, and he'll leave you like everyone else and he'll be safe._

"Hello," she said, but the rogues didn't stop. They advanced upon the patrol of two, tails lashing and fangs gleaming, ready for the fight Fireblaze had longed for.

"Wait," she said, trying to hold herself together, trying to ignore Fireblaze's confusion and rising urgency. "You don't want to hurt us. You don't know who I am."

"We know exactly who you are, girlie," one of the toms said with a grin, tongue lolling out of his mouth like a dog's. "That's what's going to make this fun. Maggot told us to hurt you special. To make sure you don't kick up dust where it doesn't belong."

Too late, she realized her earlier fear had been right: Carmelo was indeed out, and so was she. Too late, she saw Fireblaze was in danger because of her, not in spite of her, and as she turned to warn him, she saw he was already preparing to spring.

"Don't—" she began, thinking they could still salvage it, could still get away, could still run to camp, but he was already moving, springing forward to intercept the tom who had leaped while her back was turned. The two of them tumbled to the ground, spitting and clawing at one another, and as if on cue, the other rogues moved together, a wall of bodies rushing to swallow them up.

She did her best, leaping and twisting and snarling, diving and springing and turning, but she wasn't fast enough to evade all of them, wasn't strong enough to get out of their grasps once they caught her, wasn't good enough for Maggot to want her alive, and when the crushing pain set in, when she knew she wasn't getting out of the battle in one piece, she almost felt relieved.

But she heard Fireblaze yowl, heard him call her name, heard him cry out for _her_, and that was enough for her to keep fighting. That was enough for her to slash back at the claws that dug through her fur as if it was nothing, enough for her to flail even after one eye was too swollen for her to see anything on one side, enough for her to spit with defiance even once the rogues finally backed off, satisfied that their jobs were done. It was enough for her to heave herself to her paws once they were gone, enough for her to stagger over to Fireblaze's broken body and rest her muzzle on his flank, feeling his struggling heart. It was enough for her to force herself to leave him, knowing that any breath might be his last, because she had to find help, she had to let them know what had happened.

She would have gladly welcomed death at that moment, for there was nothing left – she had no allies in Twolegplace, no one that cared for her in the Clan, and even Fireblaze would have to recognize she was a traitor now – but she couldn't, not so long as he was still bleeding and gasping. She had to make sure he would be safe, that he would be okay, that he would have a life after her, and so she staggered through the forest, picking herself back up every time she fell until she finally made it to camp and crumbled into pieces. It was the longest walk she'd ever taken, the most painful she'd ever experienced, but she _had _to do it, had to make it all the way back, because she knew he would have done the same for her. He would have done _anything _for her, as stupid as it was – for the traitor, the scum, the pawn - and she couldn't _not _do anything for him.

**AN: Last oneshot for awhile! 50 will be posted after I finished Chilled, which will hopefully be soon. Stick around. ;)**


	51. 50

**AN: Silly meta shenanigans ahead. In-jokes abound. You have been warned. Pure goofiness, as a collective celebration for not only reaching 50, but finishing another story as well. :)**

**50. **

It was a simple clearing, nothing special about it, just a swathe of grass in the midst of a forest. The trees encircling it were all well aged, with branches that reached out and entwined with one another like the arms of old friends, their leaves sleek and shiny. The grass was nothing much to look at, about shin-height and yellow-green, waving like an ocean at the slightest breeze. Apples were scattered around the ground, for whatever reason, perhaps simply because apples are incredibly delicious and fun to think about.

No, there was nothing special about the clearing at all, and that was why it was so strange to see so many cats gathered together in one place. There were hundreds and hundreds of them, all cramming in as tightly as they could, struggling to fit into the clearing but failing. Dozens spilled beyond the grassy flatland, scattered amongst the trees. Some perched in branches, some lazed around on the green, and some weaved their way through the crowd with youthful glee, cackling and snapping at one another as if they had not a care in the world – and they didn't, for the moment.

Some of them were very similar – Fern and Blackheart were tucked together, whispering and laughing quietly about how you had to keep a firm eye on leaders, especially when they were toms, because they thought they knew _everything_; Ruin and Blight were sneering at each other from across the clearing, both clearly thinking the other had no class at all when it came to handling she-cats; Batflight and Shimmerfrost were comparing notes on how pig-headed the apprentices of their Clan were; Lionstorm and Fireblaze eyed one another as if trying to figure out which would triumph over the other in battle; Darkstorm and Corse were on edge, practically surrounded by their worst fears (kits and dead cats, respectively) – and some were very different – Fernstep greeted Frozenstar with a bright smile as she sat down next to the cranky leader, planning on discussing the weather; Fear cocked her head to the side, listening to Silvermist describe the joys of motherhood; Shackle watched with faint bemusement as Strawberrypaw prattled on about just how _jolly _it was to be alive. Some had stories that were still being read and discussed – Tigerstripe and Tigerstar sat together, chitchatting about Fate's cruel twists; Silverstar and Snowhawk discussed the merits of following one's duties; Sootsky and Spiderstrike sat next to one another, silently enjoying the feeling of family – whereas some had already been forgotten – Duskclaw and Mudstripe scowled about the "expendable deputy" trope; Gingerstep loudly lamented whether or not her fate would _ever _be revealed; Batter and Sentinel grumbled together about being used as dumb muscle and being rather quickly discarded; Adder huffed about villainy unexplored. Some were old and some were new, some were friends and some were enemies, some were lost and some were found. There were all sorts gathered in this little clearing, every color of the cat-fur-rainbow, and there seemed to be nothing they _all _had in common.

Nothing, that is, except for the girl perched on the stump in the very center of the clearing, with a laptop gleaming on her pale knees and an apple in one hand. She crunched on the fruit, watching the ongoing proceedings with an expression of amusement, before finally tossing the core aside as she prepared to get started.

"Alright," she said, and when the din did not die down, she insisted more loudly, "Alright! Come to order, or whatever. You guys know the drill. It's time to start…_brainstorming._"

A groan rippled through the crowd, and the girl moaned along with them. "I know, I know. Always such a tedious thing. But there's nothing that can be done about it! Yes, we've reached the halfway point, but there's still much, much, much more to do, and I'm not taking another three years to do it! Who has time for those shenanigans, honestly? Not I. So we're going to get some stuff done, and we're going to get it done quick, so you can all go home and relax and do whatever it is you guys do."

"Don't we even get to celebrate just a little?" Spiderstrike protested. "I mean, come on. We _did _just finally finish our story. Took over two years for you to get your butt in gear, but it's finally over and we can all stop worrying about the death-cloud hanging over our heads. Or, almost all of us can." He shot Maggot a sneer, and the white tom let out a low, threatening growl.

"Right, right," the girl said, scratching her head. "I guess we can take a moment to be glad we're rid of Chilled, finally. Round of applause for everyone." She clapped a moment, before realizing she was the only one with the capability to do so. "Oh, cheer or something, come on."

A chorus of yowls was graciously had, with a few cats getting a little too into the celebration – Ivykit bounced around like a little frog, Rabbitleap's kits were tumbling around like dust devils, and Tubs seemed to have gotten into a few fermented apples, as he swayed unsteadily on his paws with a blissful expression – and finally the girl held up her hands.

"Okay, okay, fun time's over. Down to business. We've gotten halfway through all this one-shot rubbish, and—"

To her displeasure, the celebratory yowls started up again at getting through the half-way point, as the cats did whatever they could to stave off the coming brainstorming session. The girl waited them out with an irritated expression, before finally banging on the keys of the computer on her lap.

That certainly got their attention: the clacking of keys could either mean incredible fortune or gruesome deaths awaited them, depending on her mood, and her expression was anything but pleasant. Almost immediately, the last gleeful noises quieted, and she cleared her throat again.

"Much better. Now, as I was saying, we're halfway through, and while that's all well and good, there's still a lot to do! Entire plots untapped, characters unexplored, deaths unwritten, loves undiscovered…you know, the usual stuff. So, let's get some of that out. Let me see." She frowned down at her laptop's bright screen. "Next one is 'Useless.' Any volunteers?"

The rather unbecoming title left the group silent, and she frowned again. "Come on, come on, it doesn't have to be a bad thing. It could be about…I don't know, overcoming uselessness. That sounds _perfect _for you, Tubs, don't you think?"

Even in his apple-induced stupor, the heavyset tom seemed to recognize the insult. He frowned and grumbled something under his breath, only to be comforted by Darkstorm, who had been the butt of many a useless joke himself.

Another large tom cleared his throat hesitantly, but the girl immediately shook her head.

"Absolutely not, Shackle. As much as I would _love _to give you some sort of horrible, angsty chapter that will doubtlessly reduce my heart to rubble, you've had like five chapters or something already. You're all over the place, and I'm pretty sure our illustrious readers are tired of your shenanigans too. No, no, we need something fresh, something _new…._" She stroked her chin, trying to think. "I have a ton of useless characters, I just know it. I could name a dozen characters more useful in death than in life. Rainwind, you're one, and Oakstripe, you're two…Slaughter makes three, and—oh, don't _glare _at me like that, you ugly thing. You know it's true. Your only purpose was to be squashed flat by that maniac." She gave Lion a nod. The golden tom only rolled his eyes, pressing his pelt more closely against Clover's. "But I really don't _want _to write about Slaughter…I'd consider Reuben, but he's never _ever _going to be a real character…hmm, hmm…."

"A-_hem,_" came a voice in the back. Yellowbelly was standing as tall as she could, struggling to make herself seen. "I _do _apologize for interrupting, but I believe it is Use_ful, _not Use_less. _I would hate to see you embarrass yourself in front of everyone."

The group was hushed, marveling at the medicine cat daring to speak out against her Almighty Creator. The girl frowned, before glancing down to her computer, and then slapping her forehead.

"For once in your life, you're right on the dot," she said. "Silly me. Use_ful, _then. Let's see—"

"I think I could be of service," Yellowbelly went on, but the girl ignored her.

"I think I have just the pair," she said, and smirked. "Two newbies, ones that no one has seen before! They'll do nicely, oh yes."

The cruel mistress tapped a few keys, making note of the decision, and nodding to herself. CenterClan's medicine cat looked disappointed, but was at least wise enough not to disagree.

"Alright. 'Treasure' is next, but we've already got everything squared away with that: Pea is going to be our darling star."

The small golden tabby seemed embarrassed by the attention, and she drew herself inwards, trying to be unnoticed. Castion, eyes gleaming as he spotted his mate, attempted to weave through the crowd to get to her, only to find a rather threatening Lightningstar in his way.

"You'll not be hurting the lady," the leader grumbled.

"I'd never dream of it," the city boss declared, but Lightningstar was unmoved. His bulk seemed more than a match for the Sun King, and so although Castion rolled his eyes with his usual royal scorn, he did sit back down.

"Lightningstar, my boy," the girl practically purred. "I know you were so looking forward to the 'Lightning,' chapter, but I'm afraid there's been a bit of a hiccup. See, I found these other two characters I want to try out for that one, and—"

"I understand," SnowClan's leader said, doing his best to sound melancholy, although rather privately he was relieved; Shackle was a very good example of why having many one-shots written about you was not necessarily a good thing at all.

"Oh, lighten up," the girl said, before chuckling to herself. "Get it? Lightning, lighten…ah, I kill myself." She wiped an imaginary tear from one eye, before continuing.

"Now, I know who we're using for 'Ceremony,' but I didn't invite him, since he gives me the heebies," the girl went on. "So, let's—"

"Hold on!" came a shout from the back. "Why does _Pea _get to be in Treasure? The readers don't even know who she is. She was only mentioned once or twice in a stupid one-shot that no one cared about."

The girl knew that voice all too well; she could already feel a headache coming on. "Dapplefern—"

"If anyone's a treasure, it's _me_," the dappled she-cat huffed. "A diamond in the rough, that's what I was. Full of untapped potential, and _possibilities, _and—"

"What makes you so great?" snapped Streamstar, unable to contain herself any longer. "If I recall, she forgot all about your death. You weren't even a footnote in your own story!"

"Well at least I _died!_" Dapplefern huffed. "She didn't even care enough about you to make sure you were dead! You were over the moment you hit the water! And, hey, at least I didn't ally with any filthy rogues, except for—"

"Who are you calling _filthy?_" Lune demanded from half-way across the clearing, pelt bristling, and he was quickly joined by Savage, Twist, and Sin, while Corse sat in the corner and hoped no one noticed him.

"She wasn't saying that _all _rogues were filthy," Snowhawk meowed, trying to play the peacekeeper as usual, only to flinch as Griffin let out a hiss.

"You're saying some of us are?" he growled, looking as though he was about to spring.

The girl tapped on a few more keys, trying to quiet them down again, but the characters all seemed rather intent on starting a brawl the likes of which had never been seen before. Inwardly, she sighed to herself – this was how these things always seemed to go, for whatever reason; her characters certainly did that from _her, _no sir – and gave Northstar a beseeching look. With a roll of his eyes, the white deputy rose to his paws, letting out a yowl that threatened to deafen the others – or in Snowhawk's case, _re-_deafen – before giving them all disparaging stares.

"Why don't we collect ourselves and not act like fools," he growled, tossing the last word in Dapplefern's face. Her jaw dropped, and her eyes burned with anger, but he silenced her with another look, and she finally sat back down.

"Thanks, love," the girl said, and Northstar dipped his head before resettling himself, allowing Rosedapple to lean on him again.

"Now, before you all start going for each other's throats again, need I remind you that we are all in this little shindig together?" the girl asked. "Being in these one-shots probably isn't always _fun _for you all, but I think they're quite interesting, not to mention helpful; they let us see parts of you that we would otherwise never uncover, let us ferret out secrets and backstories and yes, even deaths, that would otherwise remain unseen. Dapplefern, I've already apologized to you for forgetting about your death initially – in my defense, I had a lot on my plate at the time, what with writing the super-huge-crazy-death-battle and all – and you got a chapter all to yourself with 'Just Say It,' did you not?"

Dapplefern gave a begrudging grin, and the girl smiled. "See? You don't need another chapter, now do you? And Streamstar…."

The ex-RiverClan leader perked up expectantly.

"No one likes you," the girl said with a grin, "not even me. And no one cares about what happened to you after you tumbled into the water. So just forget about it, because I'm never writing about you again!"

Streamstar let out a furious huff, stalking out of the clearing and grumbling to herself. And, true to her word, the girl did not ever ever ever mention Streamstar ever again (except just one teeny tiny time in a later chapter) because Streamstar was terrible and boring and a jerk.

"Alright," the girl said, "Next up is 'Protection.' Please, no contraception jokes."

She was met with blank stares, and sighed. "Never mind. Let's just continue."

On and on it went, chapter after chapter, with ideas being continually suggested and thrown out in a mess that rather boggled the cruel mistress's mind after a short while. A great many suggestions were given, and an almost equally great number of suggestions were tossed aside. Dozens of chapters were skipped, ideas were revised several times over, and finally both the girl and the four-hundred-plus characters had had enough.

"Okay," the girl said, massaging her forehead with one hand. "Let's see. We've got some strong ideas for specific chapters down…and then a bunch of random ones, too. We're definitely going to address the whole Tigerstar/Gingerstep/Splash afterlife situation at some point…Tigerstripe, you need to have a chat with your daughter, or _something _needs to be done with her, poor neglected thing…Snowhawk, I want you to do something adorable with your daughter at some point…Silverstar, your kits are going to be in _heaps _of trouble, I'm sure…Sootsky, you and Rook have a few adventures planned. Blackheart and Darkstar, you've got a chapter reserved waaaay near the back – been reserved since I started this darn challenge in the first place, don't know why I put it so far back other than I'm an idiot – and Sweetheart, I might just have to use you for 'Delicious,' if only because it's such a dumb topic I don't know who else would fit. Oh, and something with Bullet and Brightflash, and that whole debacle with Clay and the new guy, too…and, of course, we'll have the grand finale in 'Blue Sky,' but I'm not even going to tell you guys what that's about yet."

She winked, and the group began to stir, sensing that the meeting was over. Before they could all flee and do whatever characters did when they weren't working, the girl held up her hands one last time.

"Hang on, hang on. One last little speech." She waited until they had obediently settled themselves before speaking again. "Like I said at the beginning, we've just finished one big story – the biggest thus far, in fact, in terms of both words and writing-time – and we're halfway through these one-shots. And that's really an incredible thing. I can't stress that enough. Not many people manage to write all this stuff, and while I know the quality is all over the place, I'm still proud to have done it. And I'm proud to have had you guys along for the ride.

"Some people describe their characters as their children. I'll be honest, if my babies looked like most of you guys, I'd be hella worried. Other people call their characters tools, and while _some _of you are definitely complete tools—" she paused to give Slaughter a meaningful look, "—most of you aren't half bad. I do some terrible stuff to my characters, but I'm honestly quite fond of almost all of you…even the ones that don't deserve it." Castion received a head-nod, which he graciously accepted.

"Exploring you guys – your faults and strengths and hopes and dreams and fates and flaws and _delicious _imperfections – has been one of the greatest things I've had the pleasure of doing, trumped only by being able to share all of that stuff with my dear ducklings." This time it was the sky who earned a fourth-wall-breaking stare. "It's been an incredible ride, and I have all of you to thank, for sticking with me through thick and thin – or, at least leaving and coming back when you remembered who I was. Shout out to all my TacoClan homies, too – love you guys.

"It's going to be a long, hard road, getting to one hundred, but a fun one, and I can't wait to see what we find along the way. So thank you, ducklings, for taking the time to read my babble – even this –, and thank you, characters, for cooperating with me most of the time – even though your other choice is a horrible, grisly death. There's no telling what will come after this challenge is over, if that ever happens, but I'm always excited to see what the future holds."

She paused a moment longer, drawing out the silence, before clapping her hands in one last round of applause. "Okay! You guys can all go home now."

The gathered cats hastily complied, filtering out of the clearing as one big mass. They all melded together, the cats that were alike and different, the remembered and the forgotten, the old and the new, the friends and the enemies, the lost and the found, all different threads of an immense tapestry that didn't quite form a coherent picture when it all came together, but belonged tightly bound all the same. The girl watched them go, and she smiled to herself as she closed her notebook. She sat very still for a long moment, trying to think of the perfect little quote or flowery sentence to describe the twisted tapestry that had become her fanfiction account, but finally gave up and shrugged to herself, standing up. There were cheese sticks to be eaten, after all – and fifty more one-shots to write.

**AN: This is what happens when it's too late at night for me to take myself seriously**

**It's a really good thing the Vulpine crew wasn't invited to this party, that's all I have to say.**


	52. 51 Useful

**51. Useful**

He stumbled through the tall, swaying grass, making quiet squeaks now and then, his feeble attempts at calling for his mother. His voice had long since grown hoarse, and any hope he'd had of finding her again had long since dimmed. But he didn't have any other hope, not as small and young and helpless as he was. He was lost in a world that seemed altogether too large for his young mind to handle, and thus every time he fell, he picked himself up again, determined to find her, his only lifeline.

His ears pricked as he heard a rustle ahead of him. Without any hesitation, he charged forward, his heart in his throat as he plunged through the high stalks.

"Mama," he yelped as he ran forwards into a small clearing, only to trip over a large, broad paw, and land flat on his face. The paw was not his mother's soft brown, but black, and as soon as he realized this, he scrambled backwards, looking up with fearful eyes into two scarred faces.

"It's a kit," the owner of the black paw remarked with surprise. The other tom nodded, reaching out with one paw to prod the little kit.

"Where'd it come from?" he asked, and the black tom shrugged.

"Dunno. Looks like he's alone, though. Maybe—"

He broke off as the other tom let out an exclamation of pain, as the kit bit his paw. The kit rose to his paws, rather tired of being talked about as though he wasn't present.

"I lost my mama," he said with a defiant glare, "but I'mma find her."

"You little—" the second tom seethed, but the black tom only rolled his eyes.

"Dun make sucha fuss, it was only a wee bite. Kit's so small he prolly still has his milk teeth. We should take 'im to the Tod, he'll know what to do."

"No need," came a third voice from within the grass: this one was richer than the other two, ringing with the note of authority. Both rogues snapped to attention immediately, as a ginger tom pushed through the stalks. His jaw was twisted, as though it had been broken once before, and half of his face was heavily scarred, along with the rest of his pelt, but his one good green eye glinted with danger as he sized up his visitor.

"It's a kit, sir," the black tom said helpfully, and the Tod snorted.

"I kin see that," he growled, before giving the other tom a glance. "Got yet paw good, didn't he? A tough little kit, then. What's yer name, little snapper?"

The kit didn't dare glare up at this new stranger, nor did he want to speak; he could only stare upwards with wide eyes, and finally the Tod snorted again.

"Now he's clammed up, poor runt. Pick 'im up, then, Badge. We'll take him with us. He might prove…useful." His single eye gleamed, and the black tom obediently moved forward, strong jaws clamping down around the kit's scruff.

The kit wasn't having any of that, and he began flailing, doing his best to snap at anything he could reach, although the dark tom held him far away from his body. His efforts ceased the moment the Tod turned back to look at him, and he found himself again pinned by the single glinting eye.

"Don't make this tougher than it needs to be," the Tod said, and when the kit didn't move again, he nodded. "That's it. Let's go."

The tom them led with sure-footed confidence through the ocean of grass, until they entered another clearing, this one unnatural, caused by the stomping of paws. There were more cats, all of them toms, and a chill ran down the kit's spine, although he still did not dare say anything.

"Set 'im down," the Tod ordered, and the black tom complied. The kit felt stronger as his paws touched the ground again, and he gave every onlooker a challenging narrowing of his eyes, although this only seemed to amuse a few of them.

"So, wee thing," the ginger tom said, turning to look back at the kit. "What's yer name, and what are you here for?"

The kit remained silent, his bravado fading underneath the leader's gaze, and he heard one of the toms behind him give a derisive chuckle.

"He just couldn't wait to babble 'bout his mother when he bit me," the other sulked, but he too went quiet as the Tod's stare flicked upwards.

"I heard that, yeah," the ginger tom said. "So he's lost his mother. A pity, but hardly an unfamiliar story, eh, boys?" He tilted his head to the side. "One thing you can always take for granted: everyone's got a mother somewhere. Now, little snapper, I'm gonna tell you how things are gonna go. Yer gonna stay here with us. We'll take car'a ya, make sure yer fed and sheltered, and in turn you'll be helping us out. How's that sound?"

The kit could only blink at him, petrified, and the Tod's face twisted into a rather terrifying smile. "Then it's settled. Badge, show the cub to his quarters, won't ye?"

The black tom nodded, bending to pick up the kit again, but this time he evaded Badge's jaws, stumbling a few paces forwards. The Tod's brow arched with surprise, but he only shrugged.

"Let 'im walk, then, makes no difference," he said, before turning away, flicking his thick tail for the others to gather around him. The kit blinked at them, mystified, only to turn away as Badge let out a low grunt, and began moving forwards. The kit began to follow him, only to let out a mewl of surprise as he felt a claw run up the length of his tail. He spun around, finding the tabby tom he had bitten glaring at him with narrowed eyes, before padding away.

A little shaken, the kit stumbled after Badge to the edge of the grassy clearing; he was surprised to find that his "quarters" were little more than a dip in the ground underneath a few overhanging stalks; looking around, he saw the others' were more of the same.

"Not very fancy digs, but it'll keep yer head dry," Badge grunted. "Go to sleep, and don't ask about food. You'll have to earn your keep. I dunno _how,_ but the Tod obviously has plans for you. You should be glad'a that."

Badge turned away then, stalking towards the other cats that had gathered around to hear what the Tod had to say. The kit hesitated, before padding into the little dip, feeling tiny and fragile and helpless. He curled up, pressing his nose against the tip of his tail, before swiveling his ear to see if he could pick up whatever the Tod was saying. He could not, could only catch the faint warm rumbles of the leader's voice. They were more soothing than he might have expected, once they were not directed towards him or paired with the one frightening eye, and finally the exhausted kit found himself being lulled to sleep.

. . .

He was woken hours later by the same voice, although it had lost its warm and collaborative tone.

"Up, up, cub," the Tod urged. "Come on, up, up. Get up, lad!" The last sentence was punctuated with a jab from his claw, and the kit squeaked with alarm, rising immediately to his paws as his dreams fell away.

"There ya're," the ginger tom said. "Come on, it's time to earn yer keep, and fill a few bellies while yer at it. Boys!" He flicked his tail, and three or four toms moved forward to follow him as he plunged into the grass. After a moment's hesitation, the kit moved after them, struggling to keep up.

"To the front, cub," the Tod ordered, and he redoubled his efforts, ducking under paws and running under bellies until he was finally at the ginger tom's side. "Walk with me, snapper. Don't slacken yer pace, now."

How long they walked, the kit wasn't sure, but his stomach began growling only a few minutes in, and continued until they finally came to a stop, as the Tod held up his tail. He opened his mouth, tasting the air, and the kit did the same after a moment's hesitation. He couldn't distinguish the scents from one another, but whatever the Tod had found seemed to please him, for he smirked and gave the others a nod over his shoulder. "Alright, then. We'll see if this works. Now, cub, yer hungry, aincha?"

The kit froze as the tom looked down, but his belly answered the question for him, and the Tod smiled. "Right. You'll be stuffin' yer belly in mere moments, I promise. You just gotta do one thing for us. Walk a few paces up there, and call out for your mother."

The kit's eyes widened, as the prospect of finding his mother was infinitely more exciting than the promise of food, and the Tod took note.

"Yeah, she might be out there. Think I mighta scented her," he said, "but you gotta be loud to find her, right? Yell as loud as you can, put yer lungs into it. Now, go on!" He pushed the kit forwards with his nose, and without hesitation, the kit plunged forwards, the promise of his mother filling him with new energy.

He walked until he could no longer feel the Tod's stare upon him; only then did he have the courage to begin his calls.

"Mama," he said, quietly at first, but gradually rising in volume as hope prickled his pelt. "Mama! Mama! Mama!"

He walked as he yowled, pausing now and then to listen for his mother's voice. He nearly leaped out of his fur as he heard a rustle in front of him, and froze again, wondering if he had accidentally walked in a circle and stumbled right back into the frightening toms' paws. There was another rustle, and his courage nearly deserted him, but he forced himself to remain still, emitting another cautious, "Mama?"

A face appeared between the blades of grass, and while it was not his mother, it was also not the scarred face of the Tod, and he was filled with relief.

It was a she-cat, a stranger, and she gave him a quizzical look, before shouting over her shoulder, "It was coming from over here! It's a kit." She looked back to him, giving him a small, steadying smile. "Hey, little guy. You're looking for your mother? Are you lost? Poor thing, you look half-starved. Well, you're in luck, because we've been hunting and—"

"What is it, Cleo?" came a male voice, and the kit stiffened with fear as another face made itself known, this one belonging to a young, surly tom. "A kit?"

"He's looking for his mother," the she-cat said, and the tom rolled his eyes.

"Well he definitely wasn't looking for his father, yowling his little head off like that," he grunted.

"Can we give him some prey? The others won't mind, I don't think," Cleo said, giving the tom a pleading look, and although he rolled his eyes again, it was with less enthusiasm.

"Yeah, yeah. Just get him to follow us." The tom's face disappeared, and Cleo gave the kit another warm smile.

"Come on," she purred, before she too disappeared. The kit paused, looking over his shoulder, before taking his chance, darting after the she-cat and following the trail she had left through the grass.

She had apparently been hunting with three toms in total; they all eyeballed the kit, but none objected as he approached the miniature pile of prey they had gathered together. The meadows were full of it; the richness of newleaf filled everyone's belly, it seemed.

"Oh, we just have to take him home with us," Cleo gushed, as the kit approached one of the mice lying on the ground. "I just know Nani will love him – she's been saying she wants kits lately, hasn't she?"

"That's just to turn Rail's head, and you know it," snorted one of the toms. "But I guess we could take him back, if we can't find his mother. He's got a set of lungs, at least. Maybe he could be a sentry, or something, if he can stay awake that long."

The kit ignored them, reaching out to touch the mouse. It was still faintly warm under his paws, and his mouth filled with water. The Tod rose up in his mind again, and he wondered just what the ginger tom had intended, but decided that he didn't really care. It didn't matter, if these others cats were willing to take care of him, and hopefully point him in the direction of his mother.

He was opening his mouth to take his first bite when it happened. Seemingly out of nowhere, the Tod's rogues appeared, bursting through the grass like bullets. Each lunged for one of the hunters, and the kit let out a mewl of terror as he watched Cleo crumple underneath the dark tabby he had bitten, her green eyes wide with shock and horror.

He heard a low chuckle behind him, and spun around to find the Tod padding forward, taking his leisurely time as he sized up the little pile of prey that now belonged to his rogues.

"Well done, cub," he purred, giving the kit's head a flick with his tail, before smirking at the pinned cats. "The usual, boys. Slit the male's throats, and let the female run back to her cats with a message: if the rest of her cats want to live, we'll need a hefty tribute at least once a week. Fail to comply, and they'll meet the same fates as these fine lads." He tilted his head towards the female. "We're in the east, lass, so you'll have to come find us. Wouldn't recommend talking to anyone on the way, if you get my meanin'."

Cleo let out a muffled protest under the rogue that was pinning her, but she could do nothing; the Tod's rogues moved with ruthless precision, and within moments the kit's ears were buffeted by the gurgles of the dying, and Cleo's strangled cries.

"Letter go," the Tod said, as the toms' twitching finally ceased, and the tabby tom complied. Cleo was motionless for only a moment, trembling with grief and revulsion, before her eyes flicked to the kit's. He only had a second to process the betrayal he saw there, before she was on her paws and away, disappearing into the grass.

The Tod let out another deep laugh. "Well done, everyone, well done – especially you, cub." He looked down at the kit with a twisted smile. "I knew we'd find a use for you. You can have the first bite, iffen ya like."

The kit could only stare up at him, disgust churning in his stomach, before he finally let out his own choked cry, and turned, fleeing into the thick, swaying stalks.

He ran as hard as he could, well after his breath started coming in sharp pants that squeezed his entire body with every gasp. He ran until he could no longer see the bloody toms, or Cleo's face, or even his own disappointed mother, until everything before his eyes became a series of strange, hazy shapes. He fell, and this time didn't have the strength to get back up, so he only scooted to the side, hiding underneath the tallest blades of grass that he could find, squeezing his eyes tightly shut so he could pretend he was anywhere else.

He heard the soft footsteps in the back of his mind before he actively realized what they were. Once he did, his eyes snapped open again, and he turned his head, trying to figure out what direction they were coming from. He couldn't, as muffled by the grass as they were, but it didn't matter; he was too tired to try running away again.

The Tod's ginger pelt flickered in the corner of his eye, but he only lifted his head weakly, staring the tom down as best as he could. He felt a prickle of surprise as he saw the mouse swinging in the Tod's jaws, and his belly betrayed him with another gurgle.

"There you are, cub," the Tod said, dropping the mouse in front of him. "Did you really think you could run off? Yer a tiny thing, and haven't eaten in a day or two at least, if yer stomach is anything to go by. Go on, now, eat. You earned it."

That sent the images rushing back, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut once more, wanting to curl in on himself and disappear. He had been the bait, had been sent to trap Cleo and her friends, and he'd had no idea. They were gone – he couldn't quite handle the idea of _dead, _not yet – and it was his fault.

"Cub." The Tod's voice was soft, surprisingly so, and his eyes opened again. "You not eatin' won't bring 'em back, now will it? And why should you care? They're not yer kin, not of yer blood, and they wouldn't really have looked after you. You'll learn it on your own, I 'spect, but I'll go ahead and tell you right now: no one's going to look after you but you. Everyone has somethin' they want, and they'll drop you as soon as they can get it. Those cats were no different. Neither are mine, to be truthful with you. That's just how the game is played. But yer useful to us, you understand? You proved that today, and I'm grateful for it."

He smiled, a smile that chilled the kit to the bone despite its attempted warmth. "So long as you scratch our backs, we'll scratch you. It's just as I said; we'll watch over you, make sure yer belly is full. This ploy o' ours won't work forever, not when you get bigger, but we'll train you. We'll make you strong, strong enough that no one will wanna tangle with you, and you'll help us that way. You see? It's a partnership, plain and simple. And you've held up your side so far, so that bit there is yours." He nodded to the mouse. "Go on and take a bite."

He didn't want to – every fiber of his being rebelled at the very thought – but he was afraid of the gleam on the tom's eye, so he moved forward, grasping the mouse in his claws just as he had done before, and took the smallest of nibbles.

As soon as the meat touched his tongue, his mouth filled with water again, and before he could help himself, he was tearing at the prey, ripping and swallowing as fast as he could. He had only eaten a bit more than half before his belly was full, but even then he didn't want to stop, and it was finally when his stomach let out a groan signifying it was stretched to its limits that he drew back, his mind clearing. He looked up, and saw the Tod's approval in his eye.

"There you go, cub. That's the stuff, ain't it? More than just food, it is. It's superiority, authority. You beat those other cats, we all did. We took what we deserved, and it's all the sweeter for it." He gave a twisted grin. "Nothing quite like it, not in the world. I should know – I've seen half of it. Now don't you feel better?"

The kit found that he did, although he didn't want to, and he gave the smallest of nods. The Tod let out a low, rusty purr.

"Just as I said," he meowed, before snapping up what remained of the mouse himself in only a few bites. He swiped his tongue over his muzzle with a self-satisfied expression. "Not so bad, right?"

"I want my mama," the kit said, his mew low and small. The Tod's blinked at his voice, and then laughed.

"Don't we all?" he asked. "You know that's not going to happen. We both do. She's gone and left you, cub. I've seen it a dozen times. Decided she couldn't be draggin' you around, so off she went."

His mother filled his mind then, and he saw her face, etched with guilt and sorrow, heard the murmured "I'm sorry" she had tossed to him before she turned away, before she had disappeared into the ocean of grass.

"She didn't," he said, but they both knew he was lying, and he thought he caught the faintest flicker of sympathy in the Tod's eye. "She didn't. She was coming back, but something must have stopped her. I know it."

"Seen it a dozen times," the Tod grunted again, and this time the sympathy was more obvious. "And, if I can be frank with you, cub, the first time was with my own mother. Tough things, mothers, but they all have their breaking points. I wasn't as lucky as you, either. I didn't have an ol' Tod wanting to take care of me, show me the ropes. No, I had to find them myself, and I did, though the path was a hard and unpleasant one." He touched his jaw with one paw. "I know it wasn't easy for you to see all that back there, but it was necessary. The world's a hard place, and if yer not out stealing from someone, it's you who will be stolen from. No such thing as keeping your nose clean, not really. Just stealing and fending off other would-be thieves. Such is the way of the world. You can either accept that, or get used to disappointment shadowing you. Maybe it's not how it should be, but it's how it is."

The kit's mother was still swirling around inside the kit, but in his full-bellied stupor his mind was hazy and her face was blurred. He looked up at the Tod's eyes, tracing the scarred and warped face, and thought he caught a glimpse of something he had seen in his mother's eyes a very long time ago.

"Okay," he said, and the Tod's face split into a grin again.

"Knew you'd warm up eventually," the Tod purred. "So, cub, should we be on our way?"

The kit – Cub – hesitated, then nodded. He tried to rise to his paws, but a mixture of fullness and exhaustion defeated him, sending him right back down to the ground. The Tod snorted softly and stepped forward, wrapping his jaws around the kit and lifting him up. He began their journey through the grass, and somewhere along the way the kit fell asleep once more.

**AN: Tod is a term for a male fox, as well as a name. He's basically calling himself "the Fox." It's a title, since he prefers them to actual names.**


	53. 52 Treasure

**AN: Background: Pea/Portia, Castion's mate, managed to escape his clutches after he was ambushed by an enemy boss, and is currently on the run for her freedom.**

**52. Treasure  
**

"_Open your eyes, my dear."_

_The little she-cat couldn't help but giggle as she did so, excitement fluttering in her heart as her mind conjured a dozen surprises, but all of them paled in comparison to what was before her. She stared up at the fountain's glow, completely transfixed as the arcs of light cut through the dark night sky, ribbons of color flashing above their heads before disappearing back into the water. It was the most incredible thing she'd ever seen, and nothing she had imagined could ever measure up to the beautiful display dancing before her eyes._

"_Oh," she whispered, her voice a breathy sigh of wonder as she leaned against him. "Oh, _Castion._ It's perfect."_

"_Fit for a queen," he agreed, and her face flushed at the implication. He bent down to brush his nose between her ears, a low, sultry purr humming in his throat. "Won't you remain by my side, Pea? Forever and always as my queen, my little moon, my treasure? Won't you promise me that?"_

_At that moment she would have promised him anything, anything he had asked of her. Her mind was already abuzz with the possibilities – three kits sprawled at their paws, blinking up at the two of them with identical green eyes, glowing with health – and she felt the warmth of love light her up from the inside like a torch, spreading through every part of her._

"_Forever and always," she echoed, and he smiled that predatory smile – she didn't know the menace lurking behind it, not yet, not while her foolish little heart was fluttering like a caged bird and she had no reason to disbelieve in love – and nuzzled her again._

"_That's good, my darling, because you never could leave." His voice grew deeper as she pressed her pelt against his, more menacing, until it battered her ears like a raging storm. "I would find you. I would hunt you down and bring you back. I would follow you to the ends of the earth and beyond, track you like a falcon hunts a rabbit. I would pull you back kicking and screaming and lock you up where no one would ever find you. You can't leave me, Pea, you can't, you can't—"_

Her eyes snapped open and she let out an involuntary gasp that quickly turned into a rasping cough, her chest rattling as her tiny body shook. The last part of the dream hadn't been real, had only been a figment of her imagination, but that didn't matter. The rain poured down around her, rattling the leaves of her hiding place, but she didn't care. She had to get out, to get moving again, because every moment she waited was a moment in which he grew closer to finding her.

It had been raining right after she fled, too, soaking her to the bone, but she hadn't been able to stop. Castion had let out his hounds, his runners, sent them chasing after her to drag her back into that hellish palace, that horrible, beautiful prison. She was certain of it, and that certitude had been enough to keep her going, even when she thought she would surely collapse.

And she had done it. She had made it out of the city, into the forest beyond. But even that wasn't enough, even that wasn't _safe. _If she ever stopped moving, he would find her. She knew it as surely as she knew the sun would rise again that morning.

She wiggled out from beneath her bush and began walking again, staggering through the unfamiliar briars that tore at her fur, the brambles that threatened to trip her up with every step, the rain that beat down her thin frame. The coughing set upon her again, bone-shaking expulsions of air, but she didn't care. Anything was better than that gilded cage, that cramped treasure chest, _anything. _

She walked for what felt like hours, each step heavier than the last, until she finally could take no more. She stumbled, and this time did not have the strength to stop herself from falling forwards, from sprawling in the wet leaf-litter.

He thought she had to come back. He thought she would give up, once she remembered how hard it was to live when there wasn't anyone watching over you, providing for your every need and making sure you could never take more than a few steps into the harsh light of the world. He had no idea how much harder it was to live like that, devoid of any freedom or choice or hope, nothing but empty day sprawled after empty day, on and on into the horizon. She would die a hundred deaths before she would ever go back to that.

_You just might, _some part of her whispered, as she struggled to rise again. She managed to get back on her paws, but swayed uneasily, and knew the slightest gust of wind would bowl her over again.

_Let it come, then, _she growled back, only to go rigid as something moved in the undergrowth. Her heart stopped as she saw them, green eyes glimmering between the roots of a tree, and she knew she had been too slow, that it was all over, that he had found her again.

"Who's there?" a voice snarled, and she felt relief – _Relief! How preposterous was that? _– as she realized she did not know the voice.

"No one," she said, hating how her voice trembled like a feeble leaf. "Stay back. I'm just passing through, I don't want anything to do with you."

But the shape in the shadows shifted, and she saw the glimmer of bright ginger fur, a haggard face squinting at her through the downpour.

"A she-cat," he said, sounding surprised. "Hey, now, don't be frightened. You shouldn't be out in this storm. Come in here, just for a little while."

Every instinct screamed at her to run, run, run, to avoid another prison, and she turned only to fall again. This time when she rose, her legs buckled beneath her like twigs, and her heart beat even more fiercely than before as she realized she couldn't get away.

"Stay back," she warned, but the coughing overtook her again, and she heard the tom's paws brushing over the leaves as he moved closer. She twisted around to try and snarl at him, but her vision was swimming, everything growing blurry as she wheezed for breath, and finally she lost the battle for consciousness entirely. She fell back into the abyss screaming, knowing that it was over, knowing she had failed herself again.

. . .

"Hey? Hey, are you waking up?"

The voice swirled around her like a venomous snake as she came to, and for a moment as she saw was a ginger blur before her vision cleared.

She took in her captor, flinching away from his piercing green eyes and looking at his pelt instead. It hung loosely on his frame, as if he had once been far bulkier, but life in the forest had hardened him. His jaw was firm and strong – almost familiar, somehow – and when she finally found her way back to his eyes, she saw them glimmering with concern.

She looked away again. Anyone could show concern, even if it wasn't in their hearts. She'd learned that a long time ago. Anyone might seem protective because they cared, when really they only wanted to grasp a treasure they believed to be theirs

"Hello there, uh, miss," the tom said uncertainly. "I know you didn't want to be in there, but it was pouring, and you're obviously sick. You need to rest up, okay? Don't you worry now. I'll keep you safe."

A bolt of terror ran through her at that – it was always for her protection, wasn't it, the way these toms bottled her up, the way they treaded so carefully around her as if she was a fragile insect – but he didn't notice. Instead he pushed forward a small bird, a hopeful smile flickering on his muzzle.

"Caught that for you," he said, and she went rigid as she remembered the dancing fountain, the supposed kindness that had only been a sham. She was in the same situation now; she could see it clear as day. There was a different captor, and it was a different prison, but somehow it was still the same. He was just another tom trying to preserve a piece of beauty for himself, trying to capture a bauble for him to admire on a rainy day.

"For me?" she hissed. Her voice as feeble, but it still caught the tom off guard, and he took an uncertain step back.

"I don't want anything from you," she growled, "or anyone else. I just…I just want to be on my own!" Her voice threatened to splinter, and she fought to keep herself together. "Let me go. Let me leave."

"Look, miss, you're _sick,_" the ginger tom began, but she bared her fangs at him, the first time she had done so in what felt like years, and he fell quiet again for a long moment, staring her down. Finally, he shrugged. "Alright, alright. It's not raining anymore. If you want to stumble back out there, I won't stop you."

She eyed him, convinced he was lying, but he gave his ear an impatient flick. "Go on, then."

She rose to her paws, and a tremor ran through her, but still he did not move, only waited.

Finally, she lied down again, knowing she wouldn't even make it to the entrance, not with another tide of coughing threatening to rise up in her throat again. She curled up as tightly as she could, trying to make herself invisible – that was her only defense; it always had been – so she could pretend she was somewhere else.

"That's better." The tom's voice was soft. "Look, I don't know where you came from, and I don't know who hurt you, but I'm not going to, okay? That bird is yours, I meant it, and the sooner you eat it and get better, the sooner you can be on your way."

She dared to look at him again despite the fear still humming in her veins, and saw his earnest expression. Slowly, she moved for the bird, ready to stop just in case he began attaching strings, as Castion always did, forcing her into making promises she wasn't sure she could keep. But the tom said nothing, and she pulled the bird into herself, nipping at the feathers before digging in.

She tore at it like a feral beast, and although some part of her felt a glimmer of shame, it was buried beneath the pleasure of the prey rolling over her tongue, of her teeth biting into something more than air. She hadn't eaten in days, not since she'd finally escaped, but it was more than that; the bird tasted of the forest, of earth and leaves and bark, not dust and grime and smog.

He spread his paws when she finished and looked to him for more, a helpless gesture. "Sorry. That's all I got. I'll go looking later, though, in the evening. It's nippy outside now."

She only nodded, and was prepared to withdraw again when he asked, "What's your name?"

Her mind went blank. She hadn't even considered that she might run into someone else, someone that wouldn't know who she was, someone who would require a name. 'Portia' wasn't safe, and she never wanted to be called 'Pea' ever again, as long as she lived.

"I don't have one," she said softly, ears flattening, and she waited for his harsh judgment. To her surprise, he chuckled.

"I don't either, I guess. Haven't needed one in such a long time…someone once told me Flame is a cool name, though. He liked Rocket too. How would you fancy being a Rocket?"

She didn't answer, and the smile slid from his face. "I'm sorry. It's just…it's been a long time since I've had anyone here. Gone a bit stir-crazy, I guess. But we can find a name for you, I'm sure. Dawn, maybe? Or Hon—"

His face closed abruptly, and his green eyes flicked downwards. She blinked at him, confused, but he seemed lost in his thoughts. Despite herself, she felt a flicker of pity.

"We don't need names, I don't think," she mewed. "It's just the two of us."

"Right, right. And you'll be well soon enough, and move on to bigger and better things, I'm sure." He rose to his paws. "I'll go catch something else, I guess. It's not so nippy after all. You should try to sleep." She watched him move towards the entrance to the den, and felt a prickle of anxiety as he paused, thinking he would warn her not to leave. Instead, he smiled at her again. "This is the lowest point, I hope you know. Wherever you've been, whatever's happened, it'll never be worse than this moment right now, okay? You've got nowhere to go but up, don't you think? You can leave whatever was following you behind."

"Did you?" she blurted, and another shadow crossed his face. He didn't answer, just gave her a parting flick of his ear as he padded out of the den.

Later he came back with more prey, just has he had promised, and when she reached out for it again he still asked for nothing from her, only gave her another one of his strange smiles before he tucked into his own meal.

. . .

The days passed swiftly, as she spent most of them asleep, hiding in her dreams to avoid the fear and coughing and the ginger tom's green eyes. Slowly, little by little, she began to feel like herself again as the wheezing receded to small spurts rather than earthquakes rippling through her body, one after the other.

And still the ginger tom said nothing about a reward for his kindness. Still he kept his distance from her, instead of trying to pin her to the wall like a prize to be admired. She didn't understand it – perhaps she never would again, after all she'd been through – but she found she liked it. She enjoyed being ignored when it was by her own choice, when she knew she could initiate a conversation at any moment, but simply chose not to. The freedom of it danced over her fur like the gentle wings of birds, and she found herself beginning to relax.

And then, the ginger tom came back to the den smelling of blood and fear, gashes gaping wide in his thick fur.

She was on her paws as soon as he entered, eyes wide, but he didn't say anything at first, only flopped down onto the den's floor with a grateful sigh, closing his eyes. If it wasn't for the rise and fall of his flanks, she might have thought he was dead.

He still seemed content not to speak, and finally it was a mixture of curiosity and terror that made her pipe up.

"What happened?" she whispered, and his ginger eyes snapped back open. He frowned for a moment, as if he'd forgotten she was there.

"It looks worse than it is," he said, but when he sat up, it was with a grimace. "Just ran into the local gang. They heard there was a she-cat roaming around the area, and they were…curious."

She felt that familiar fear creep over her pelt. Here it was, what she had been hoping to avoid: that need to protect her, that desire to watch over her as though she was nothing more than a twig to be snapped, a baby bird fallen out of the nest. It started off innocently enough, but it quickly grew into a beast, a fervently over-protective thing that would come to see dominating her as protecting her, chaining her as sheltering her, trapping her as keeping her as safe as possible.

He misunderstood her expression, and quickly said, "Don't worry, miss. I didn't tell them anything. I know better than that. I said I hadn't seen hide nor hair of any she-cats. They didn't like that much."

"You were protecting me," she said, and it came out like an accusation. He seemed nonplussed, but he shrugged.

"It wouldn't have mattered," he meowed. "They've already decided that they don't like me because I won't join their bunch. Even if I had said anything, they would have roughed me up anyway. No reason to give them the satisfaction."

He made it sound like a selfish thing, his keeping quiet, and she didn't understand it. Confusion flitted over her face, and when she spoke again, it was with uncertainty.

"So…not telling them really had nothing to do with me? It wouldn't have mattered who it was?"

"It wouldn't have mattered who it was, right," he said with a nod. "But it wouldn't have mattered who was asking, either. It's not my place to help anyone find you or any other cat. I just want to stick to myself. You want the same, don't you?"

She nodded, and he smiled despite the pain he was clearly in. "You'll be fine when you leave, don't you worry. Just travel at night, like you were before. They don't like night-prowling much. Scared of what they might find, I think. It's easy to act big and bad during the day, but when the moon's the only thing watching over you…."

She hated the moon, hated it with a passion. It was nothing but a shadow of the sun, a feeble thing too weak to stand on its own. It was just another treasure to be stared at, something to be appreciated only for its surface, not whatever was beneath the pale exterior.

"Does it hurt?" she asked, trying to take her mind off of the bright orb, and he grimaced.

"Quite a bit," he replied. "I'd like to sleep it off, if it's all the same to you."

She could hardly object to that, so she watched as he closed his eyes again and the pain leached out of his face. She found herself rising to her paws and slipping away, padding into the undergrowth.

When the scent of the mouse reached her, she didn't know what to do, at first. It took her a moment to remember those old lessons, her mother smiling down at her and telling her that her tail was sticking up just a bit too high. Once, she had been a very good hunter, able to slip over the ground almost soundlessly, able to make herself invisible to the prey until it was too late for them. But then, somewhere along the way _she'd _become the prey, and the threat lurking behind the Sun King's charms had been just as invisible to her.

Carefully, she settled down into a crouch, trying to find her center. She'd known where it was once, known exactly how to proceed, but that all felt like a world away now, another life entirely, one golden and bright instead of silver and washed-out.

But then, something clicked, as her stomach brushed the ground and her eyes locked onto her prey. There was some sense of rightness in her limbs as she moved over the ground, feeling the leaves crumple and fold underneath her paws, seeing the mouse twitch its whiskers in the soft light. And when she sprang, it was with certitude, real confidence she had not felt in moons, and she was not surprised at all when the mouse was trapped between her paws.

She nipped it, ending its struggles, and stared down at the little prey between her claws. It was something that belonged to her, something she owned, her own treasure to clutch to herself. It was something she owed to no one, something she had managed to get all by herself, without the Sun King's presence or the hulking guards over her shoulder. It was _hers _in a way that hadn't even existed since she'd fallen into the boss's clutches. She could do whatever she wanted with it, and no one could reproach her. She could gobble it all down if that was what she chose, and then she could be on her way again, continuing her flight through the forest and leaving the den and ginger tom behind. It was her choice, completely and utterly.

His eyes snapped open when she dropped the mouse in front of him, mere minutes later. He seemed bemused as she went back to her usual spot and curled up, watching him.

"It's yours," she said, almost shyly. "I thought…well, it'll hurt you to hunt. And you were very kind, so…."

"Thank you." He didn't reach out for it. "Are you sure you don't want it…?"

She nodded, and he gave her a smile that seemed far more genuine than the others, something that actually lifted the haggard look out of his face, if only for a moment. "Thank you," he said again, and warmth crept over her face; she couldn't remember the last time she'd been thanked for anything. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had anything to offer. "You must be feeling much better, then. You'll be leaving soon, I expect?"

That was it, the question, and it took her a moment to answer.

"Well," she began, hesitation clouding her voice, "I was thinking about that, actually. You said you were in quite a bit of pain, and those toms will be looking out for you. It would probably be best for you to stay hidden, wouldn't you think? And I…well, I wouldn't mind helping, if you…if you wanted…." Her courage began to desert her, but he gave that genuine smile again, spurring her on. "And I'm very fast. If I do scent them or see them, I can run away, and they won't catch me. No one is going to catch me now, not ever." Her jaw clenched, and she said it again, "Not ever."

"I wouldn't mind that." His voice was gentle. "I wouldn't mind that at all."

"It's just…nice being useful, I think. Even if it's only for a short time." She looked back down to her paws as he chuckled.

"So it is."

He began to eat, and she thought back to what he'd said about names. Her mother used to toss around expressions, all sorts of strange things that didn't make any sense but still sounded nice. _Rocket to the top, _that had been one of them. And what had the ginger tom said? _You've got nowhere to go but up. _It was true, she would make it so. She would never be in that place again, that abysmal cage, not so long as she lived.

"I…I was thinking…." She dared to look up at him again. "I wouldn't mind being called Rocket. We might need names, if I…if I do stick around just a bit longer."

He nodded. "Makes sense to me. Rocket it is. Guess that makes me Flame." He purred to himself. "Works as well as anything, though. Do you mind if I call you Ket, for short?"

He was honestly asking her, she realized; there wasn't a predetermined outcome, like there had been with Castion.

She didn't want to ever have a pet name again.

"Rocket," she said with a firmness that surprised her. He didn't object, didn't sneer at her, only nodded again.

"Rocket," he repeated. "Sounds good. But can you do one thing for me?"

She froze, trepidation creeping through her, but there was no malice in his green eyes, no threat, however similar they were to Castion's, and she dipped her head.

"Can you smile?" he asked. "Just once? You'd be even prettier if you smiled."

She only stared at him for a moment, and then her eyes drifted around the little den they were sheltered in, the plain place that was already beginning to feel like a home. And she looked at the mouse between his paws, the mouse she had caught by herself, without any help from anyone. And she looked out towards the entrance, towards the unobstructed view of the forest, the escape that no one could take from her. And then she looked back to him, his earnest face, his quiet hope. And it didn't matter, where she came from or what she'd been through, and it didn't matter who he had lost, or how his path had become so clouded. None of it mattered but the here-and-now, and it was perfect.

Privately, she laughed to herself as she imagined Castion, thought of his palace and mountain of prey and the hoards of cats he kept so close, because no matter how much he amassed, no matter how much he built up and collected and grasped for, he would never feel the simple, joyful hope that hummed in her ears at that very moment. She had won, it was as simple as that. She had found somewhere new, somewhere he could never touch, somewhere he would never be able to take her from, and that was enough.

She smiled, and for the first time in moons, it reached her eyes.


	54. 53 Ceremony

**AN: Another TC piece. This one takes place years in the past, before even servants were a thing. Set in the mountains. **

**53. Ceremony**

He sits in the darkness with nothing but his own heartbeat and the flowing of the underground river running through his ears. He tilts his head, listening to the running of the jet ribbon, and smiles to himself.

"Well, well," he says softly, voice curling like smoke in the blackness before his eyes, "here we are. Just you and I, Shadowed One."

He receives no reply from the dark god, but then again, the Shadowed One never speaks, not to its followers or anyone else. It is said that its most loyal worshippers hear its voice at the moment of their deaths, if it even has one, but of course this rumor is impossible to confirm. He doesn't really care either way; it's not the god's voice that he's after, but his blessing. There is no way to even know if the Shadowed One is here, listening to him speak in the belly of the earth, but he is almost certain of the shadow god's presence; it has everything to gain from its willing worshipper, after all.

"I have always been loyal to you," he murmurs, feeling his tongue twist like a snake. "We are kindred spirits, I think…always draped in darkness, and scorning the light. Always moving in shadows, unwilling to be watched. Always working behind the movements of others, rather than stepping forth ourselves. Always unwilling to speak, preferring to listen. Not evil, of course, for what beings have time for such silly mortal moral constructs? We are only dubious to those observing. It is a fine system to live by, but times are changing, Shadowed One, and changing quickly. Your particular approach will no longer work for me, not now, not when the family is so adamant that I must become king." The last word comes out as a hiss, but he does not have to conceal his feelings, not when it is only he and his deity and the rushing water. "Kings must be draped in light. Kings must be watched. And kings absolutely must step forwards. Every eye will be upon me at all times. Everything I do will be scrutinized, morally weighed and judged. Even the slightest flick of my paw will offend _someone_. My decisions will cause the rise or fall of our family, and the fates of those we rule. I have no trouble with that, but I would prefer the apparent responsibility fall on another's shoulders. Being king does not become those such as myself. We both know this.

"But there is no way around it that I can see, not yet. I could sire a litter, but then I would be responsible for their growing up, their training, their education…not to mention all the dreadful ties that comes from sons and daughters. And, I will be honest, I have no such desires for carnal pleasures." He snorts to himself softly. "No, I think I will wait and bide my time, allow someone else to produce a suitable heir. Abdication is so much easier. But that will take time, I think, lots of time. Years, even, as I will not pass the proverbial crown to just any tom that happens along. So I will need to survive, and wait, and endure that damned light upon me until I can fade away again. And thus, I ask for your blessing."

He reaches for the hearts lying near his paws, those he has collected over the past week, stashed in the snow to preserve them. They are of various shapes and sizes, but he does not distinguish between them as he grabs one in his jaws. It rests against his tongue like an icy stone, and he quickly steps to the edge of the river, right up until the chilling water of the Acheron tugs at the tips of his toes. It is enough to make him shudder, but he plunges his muzzle into the water, restraining the gasp that accompanies the motion as sharp needles settle into his flesh. He sits as still as he can, praying as the water numbs his face, before he releases the heart to the river's cold grasp. The Acheron whisks it away without a sound, and he moves back for another.

He repeats the motions again and again, although before he is finished with even half of his offerings, his entire body is being wracked his shudders, as the Acheron's corrupting touch runs up his muzzle and down his spine. With each one, he thinks the same prayer: _Let our family become mighty and prosperous, let their name be remembered and mine forgotten, let all of our plans come to fruition and let the next heir be wise and strong. Show me the way to make him so, show me how to protect him so that he may take over and I may step back into your reach. Show me what I must do, show me your path, and I will perform whatever you ask of me. I will extend your reach farther than it has ever gone, touch those you have never been able to touch before. Your strings, your spider web will spread far and wide throughout the land, and both of us will thrive._

The final heart is the largest, that of an eagle their hunters managed to bring down, although he has heard one or two were injured in the struggle. He cannot contain it in his mouth, not entirely, and it makes his jaws ache even before he puts it in the water. He holds onto it the longest, as the aching and cold water fight one another, repeating the prayer over and over until the words become entirely meaningless, until they are only the mindless repetition of sounds bouncing around his skull. Only then does he let go, relinquishing his last offering, and with a deep breath, plunges his entire head into the water.

He comes up gasping mere seconds later, his entire being stinging with the sheer _cold _of it, cold beyond explanation or description. It is the cold of water that has never seen the light of day, never felt the sun's caress, and probably never will, if the legends are true. He steps back, still panting, imagining his breath pluming before his face as he shivers and shivers and awaits the Shadowed One's judgment. Whether his offering has pleased it or not, he will receive no answer in words, but he will know all the same.

Figuring out how to protect the next heir is his biggest concern, his greatest worry. It is one thing for an heir to be born; it is quite another for them to live to adulthood, amidst the political strife and turmoil within the mountains. And becoming a king is even far beyond that, monumentally far. He loathes the idea of becoming king, but he will not relinquish the title to the first tom his sister manages to push out.

Domovoi, his most loyal ally, enters his mind then, and he frowns. He is certain that part of the reason he draws breath to this day is because of the other tom's actions, his protection. But he knows very well why Domovoi is so loyal, and it is not mere duty. Domovoi's feelings run far deeper than that, and Pegard knows he would do whatever he was asked, no matter the consequences to himself or anyone else. If there was only a way to replicate that somehow, without the sticky emotional ties, a way to completely bind one cat to another, a way to craft the perfect partnership that would not break….

His eyes drift upwards, even though he cannot see a thing. What he desires sounds similar to the power the Shadowed One has over its followers, that unbreakable bond. Once one decides to follow the dark god, there is no going back. One can only do as it wishes, spread its influence even wider, for the Shadowed One can only touch those that its followers also control. That is why Pegard is so valuable to him, and why he carries the silent god's favor: as king, he will control the fates of dozens and dozens of cats, and through him, the Shadowed One will be able to pull their strings, and the strings of all they in turn touched. It is a tremendous opportunity for the both of them, and thus some part of him knows the shadow god will not turn him away, for it has as much to gain as he.

Inspiration strikes him then like a lightning bolt, cutting through the ice and pain. He sits straight up, eyes agleam in the darkness, and knows the Shadowed One has made his decision clear.

"Thank you," he whispers, then more strongly, "Thank you. You will not be disappointed in me, I assure you. I will take your teachings to heart, and surpass them, when I am finally able to step down. The new king will do my bidding, and I will do yours."

He receives no reply, but he had not expected one, and when he leaves the river behind to weave his way through the twisted tunnels, his heart is light despite its new layer of settling ice.

**AN: Servants!**

**Also, for those of you interested in Vulpine (an original fiction piece that will be posted on FictionPress), I'll be posting the prologue tomorrow some time, probably in the morning. I'll probably set up a bio post for the characters on the blog right after that, so keep an eye out. The blog and FictionPress links are both on my profile, if you want to check them out. :)**


	55. 54 Lightning

**AN: Hypothetical servant piece set in a different city.**

**54. Lightning**

She rips through their ranks, claws flashing in the moonlight, crimson blood dyed silver by the soft rays filtering down to the floor of the alley spattering on the stone. She twists and turns and snarls and strikes, a white streak, indomitable and uncatchable, until nothing stirs but her heaving flanks.

From the shadows, he steps forward, eyes all aglow with amusement. "Good work, good work," he purrs, stepping over a fresh body very carefully, not wanting to mar his white paws.

"Thank you, sir," she murmurs, dipping her head as he continues to survey her handiwork with that same pleased expression.

"You never disappoint, White Lightning," he goes on, and she flushes under her fur. She hates the nickname; it's silly, infantile, but it's spread like wildfire, her reputation setting the city ablaze. No one can hope to match her when it comes to speed or ruthlessness – and, if she can admit it to herself, she enjoys his compliments. After all, if she is lightning, then he is her lightning rod.

"I try, sir." She pauses for a moment, before asking, "Where do we go from here?"

He tilts his head to the side, thinking; his tongue whips out to tap the splash of white on his jet muzzle. "Well, the Strikers won't be causing us any more trouble, which means that old scamp Alder has nothing more to threaten us with. So we'll go after him next. Most of his territory is pathetic, but he does have this _lovely _breakfast place on the corner. They have these little rolls there that are always thrown out in great numbers – oh, they're scrumptious. We'll grow quite fat on them, yes we will." His eyes gleam, and she can't help but quirk a smile at that; they both know very well she would never allow herself to get plump, not when such a thing would hinder her speed. She's of average size and musculature, and nothing really to look at, so her swiftness is all that makes her useful to him – that and her dogged, tireless loyalty, something instilled into her before she was even old enough to form her own name, although she didn't have one then.

"For now, though, let's head home," he mews, giving a flick of his white-tipped tail before heading down the alley, still skirting around the bodies her claws have rendered useless. She follows, pausing only to slit the throat of one injured cat who escaped her deadly fangs, but not her claws.

As usual, he takes a bit of a meandering path back home, to their little cottage. It's in a bland neighborhood, long since abandoned and nothing really to speak of; she isn't sure whether or not he really likes it, but despite having plenty of other properties to live in, he's stuck with it for moons. Unpredictable in some ways, he is rather habitual in others, and she supposes the cottage is one of them. She's in no place to make judgments.

"Chess, sir," the guards say respectfully on the front porch as they approach, and he gives them both gracious nods. His name is as much a mystery as the rest of him; everyone agrees that it's short for something, but no one knows what. Some say Rochester, others plain old Chester. A few argue for Cheshire, but most aren't even certain that's a name. Most of the other suggestions are even more ridiculous, and in the end, it doesn't really matter, any more than his origin matters. Chess simply is, like the wind and rain and earth: a force of nature, something to either be respected or feared, not investigated.

The guards offer no such acknowledgement to her, but she doesn't expect it as she follows Chess through the doorway. That's not her place, either. They'll whisper behind her back, call her by her hated nickname, and never address her face. Privately, she rather prefers it that way. Conversations are taxing, and she doesn't enjoy stares.

He continues on until they reach what Twolegs would call the kitchen. It's his favorite room, for it is backed by large, mostly intact windows, which let plenty of sunlight in during the day. Moonlight stains everything silver now, making it look eerie, surreal. Her eyes linger on the glass barriers for a moment, and she thinks she sees some sort of strange haze shimmering before her eyes, something almost the shape of a cat, but it's nothing, just sleepless imaginings.

He heads to the old oven, which hangs open; the metal bars on the bottom have been covered in cushions and other fabric, and it is in this cozy makeshift den that he curls up with a contented sigh, tucking his tail against his nose. Hers is on the oven door itself, right in front of him; even in sleep, she's a barrier between him and the rest of the world, as she should be. She lies down after he does, feeling the cold plastic against her stomach, and lets out her own sigh.

"Tether." His voice isn't urgent or angry, just slightly annoyed, but she immediately sits up.

"Yes, sir?"

"You've got blood all over you, girl. You tracked it all through the house. We talked about this, didn't we? I think we did."

She looks down at herself with surprise, wincing at her gore-flecked chest and stained paws. "Yes, sir, we did. My apologies." She starts to rasp her tongue over her paw, only to pause at his expression of disgust.

Right, he hated this sort of thing. Filth, muck, blood. And even more than that, he hated it when it was cleaned by someone's tongue. Diseases, that's what he always ranted about. _You wouldn't just drink someone else's blood, or eat mud for fun, would you? _he would say. _So why would you lick yourself with that stuff on you?_

"I'll go clean up," she mews, shame-faced, for she knows all about his peculiarities. She's been his servant for moons and moons now, has heard his various lectures about cleanliness and politeness and efficiency, withstood hours and hours of his favorite topics. _Where is your mind, Tether?_

"Yes, go do that." His dismissal is clear, and she leaves the kitchen, heading back out the front door onto the lawn, which is covered in dew. She rolls in that, taking care to get her paws and claws clean before everything else. Now wet grass clings to her fur, but that's still better than blood and dirt in Chess's eyes, and that will just have to be good enough.

She's about to pad back to the porch when the moonlight all but vanishes; looking up, she sees the moon has been covered by a thick layer of clouds, obscuring even the faintest scrap of light. And then, there's a flash, and an answering rumble to match, and the heavens suddenly burst apart as torrential rain crashes down upon her thin frame.

For a moment, she's too surprised to move, as the rain chills her to the bone; then, she smiles to herself, even laughs a touch, for the rain is far better than even fresh dew. Someone up there must be looking out for her, that's what she thinks.

She has no idea this isn't normal for a servant. She doesn't know that, a city over, there are servants mired in self-loathing and grim failure, servants who don't even have nicknames, who are not even spoken of in hushed whispers as weapons, servants who are more like the shadows of their Masters than real cats at all. She doesn't know that their Masters are different too, or at least different from Chess; arrogant twats with swollen heads and eyes set on prizes far larger than their bellies can handle. She doesn't know that, had she lived in this other city, just forgetting about one of her Master's peculiarities would be enough for a beating or starvation or some other punishment only a twisted, sick mind could craft. She has no idea of any of this, no idea that even the ability to dream that someone could be watching over her for her own good is a gift.

So she sits in the rain, watches the lightning flash over her head in blissful ignorance, and thinks to herself that perhaps she is a bit mistreated, perhaps things aren't entirely fair, perhaps she deserves a bit more than just following Chess blindly because someone told her when she was just a kit that's what she was placed on this earth to do. Perhaps she deserved a little family of her own, kits curled up at her belly and a warm, masculine rumble in her ear before she fell asleep. Perhaps all those things could be possible, if she only got away from Chess, just long enough to breathe on her own.

But even though she is luckier than those cats in the other city, she is still a servant, still bound to her Master in ways she does not entirely understand. So she does go inside, does make sure she is almost completely dry before she reenters the kitchen, does curl up in front of Chess as she always does, does feel him scrutinize her for any remaining specks of dirt staining her pelt. She does hear his quiet purr when he finds none, his little, "That's better, Tether," his vague outline of plans for confronting Alder tomorrow and taking what they're owed, his sleepy sigh as he finally gives up consciousness and fades away. She does yawn to herself, closes her eyes and thinks of Deacon, about all she'll have to tell him when they meet up at the next halfmoon and she speaks of what she and Chess have accomplished, what mistakes she's made along the way. And he'll listen with those sharp yellow-gold eyes of his, eyes that crinkle slightly with amusement in all the right places, eyes that take on a touch of concern whenever she talks about however many cats she's offed since they last met. He's not her father, but he's all she has, and she finds herself always looking towards their little meetings, always wanting to impress him with what she and her Master have accomplished – even if the accomplishments aren't really hers to claim. And he'll either reassure her or tear her apart, or maybe a little bit of both, and then she'll slink back to Chess without him ever having been the wiser, because Deacon is her little secret. He's the secret of quite a few cats, servants scattered all over their fair city, but of course she doesn't know that. It just wouldn't do for her to know that she's not special to him, that he's not her kindly father looking out for her, that underneath his smiles and smooth voice, he's an oily snake playing mad scientist.

Outside the thunder rolls and the rain lashes against the windows, a comforting lullaby to the servant known as White Lightning to most, Tether to a few. Off she tumbles, into dreams sprinkled equally with scarlet specks on white fur and kits nestled against a belly as pale as the moon.


	56. 55 Protection

**55. Protection**

He'd give his life in a second for any of them, without any hesitation. He knows that as surely as he knows the sun will rise in the morning and fall in the evening, as sure as he knows the seasons will turn and the moon will wax and wane. But his feelings are like none of those things, because they never change. They are the north star, locked in place and calling to him, giving his life meaning, direction. Without them, he would be nothing, frozen stiff on some distant hill, trapped in his own private hell. But she saved him, as she has so many times before, and he would give up anything to pay her back.

He loves her – loves them all - so much he thinks he might burst apart at the seams, and he almost cannot remember a time when such feelings were forbidden, when his only loyalty was supposed to be to his Master, whether he deserved it or not. Every time he thinks of those dark days, he is struck again by the depths of his father's cruelty, for the inability to give into these feelings – _love, _the word hums in the back of his mind and sends warmth throughout his entire body, warmth that he does not understand but _loves _in return – is the worst torture he could imagine.

It has its dark moments, though. Love is a double-edged sword; he learned this long ago. He loved that white kit with the green eyes, if only for an instant. He loved Honey, in a strange way, for she had been the first to speak to him as if he was worth anything. He loved Copper, although those feelings have done more harm than good. He loved Tobias, despite all his flaws, for not only had he been sworn to him, but he had seen the prince's vulnerabilities, his flaws, his hopes and dreams and the cat he might have been if his father had been anyone else in the world. He loved Jaci, whose bright spark had been extinguished far too soon. He loved his brothers, who had been stolen for him, and he felt a strange, absent love for his mother, who had never even given him a name, not for the three moons in which they had known each other.

He had loved his father, as terrible and twisted as that love was. Stone had been the symbol of what he was, the anchor to cling to in stormy seas. In some way, he was an entirely different cat than Fetter, even though both of them had been incapable of any sort of love.

But mostly, he loved his family. He loved Maelstrom's strength and determination and loved Mackerel's quiet courage and warmth and loved Twister's steadfastness and ability to overcome all she had been through for them. He loved Alifair's bravery and selflessness and he loved the four kits Jaci and Jenner had left them, despite all their imperfections, and his own fears. Once, he had been terrified of breaking them. If he was being honest, that fear still existed; he had only learned to push it back, for their sakes.

Every day he watches them from his spot in the hay, watches Maelstrom train and Mackerel love and Twister stand strong and the kits frolic and play, and he thinks of how lucky he is. It sounds absurd, considering all he has been through, but it is the only word fit to describe him now. He is lucky because despite everything – despite his parents' natures and the way he was raised and everything he has suffered, despite his body breaking down and his mind feeling as though it would surely fracture at his worst moments, despite being born a slave and ground down into dust, despite countless battles and thousands of close calls – he is here, he has a family, cats to protect, a place to stay. Above all, he is lucky, because he chose it for himself.

He isn't sure if they understand any of this. Whenever he tries to voice these strange things inside of him – buzzing around like bees, but as bright and warm as fireflies – his voice locks up, his words halt in the back of his throat and refuse to trot out obediently. He isn't sure he could ever share the scope of his loyalty to Maelstrom, something that runs so much deeper than feelings for a Master ever could – an impossibility in itself, as the relationship between a servant and his Master was supposed to be the end-all be-all, but then Stone had been wrong about that too – something that would never change or splinter or crumble away. Maelstrom has been left by others all his life, and if the only thing Shackle can do to protect him is to stay by his side, then he will.

Mackerel is the same, but different. Never in his life has he said those three words that carry so much weight, and indeed he is not sure he will ever be capable of it. That might be one scar his life has left him that will not heal. But he _feels _it every time he sees her, feels it spreading over his fur like gentle sunlight every time she looks at him or smiles or says his name – funny, how a symbol of his wretched status could be transformed to something so lovely – and every time he wishes he could show her what she looks like through his eyes. Mackerel never had a family either, before she found them, and if the only thing Shackle can do to protect her is to be a part of that family and stand strong, then he will.

Twister is still mysterious to him. She has shared some of her secrets, but her life has been scarred by misfortune too, and he knows there are some things she will probably never tell him. She does not invoke feelings of depth or love in him the way the others do. Rather, it is the love Mackerel holds for her that he sees, and the way she loves her new daughter in return that warms him. Twister is a she-wolf, hell-bent on protecting what she has and willing to do whatever it takes to ensure that her family is safe. She wants to shelter Mackerel from what she can, to right what has been wronged, and if the only thing Shackle can do to protect her is to do right by her daughter, then he will.

The four kits are different, too. Once, he was afraid of them, not because they were terrifying – the idea was laughable, as tiny and fragile and lovely as they were – but because he was afraid of himself, afraid he might hurt them, as he has so many others. The first cats he ever killed were kits, after all, and sometimes their eyes hover on the edges of his vision. Not only that, but these four hold their parents' spirits, and their mistakes, too. They will never be entirely normal, not one of them, but their barn family loves them all the more for it, and in time, he came to as well. Letting go of his fear might have been the most difficult thing he ever had to do, but they need someone like him, someone older and stronger and wiser to look out for them, to teach them things that the others simply could not, to share bits and pieces of how the world worked that the others simply did not know, and if the only thing Shackle can do to protect them is to provide all of that, then he will.

This is the role he was born to play. From the moment he was born, this is what was carved out for him: the servant, the guardian, the sentinel, the protector. He has never minded it, never resented it, even when it meant he was nothing more than a tool, something to be used and thrown away at his Master's leisure. But he is so much bigger than that now, and he knows it. Now he has the responsibility for not just one cat, but many, and things he feels for them run deeper than anything he had ever known before, anything he had thought possible for one of his station, for his station did not truly exist at all. He'd had the opportunity to leave, moons ago, when the truth came crashing down on him. But he had not. He had chosen this life once more, and he would do it all over again every time the opportunity was presented to him, for it was where he belonged. Perhaps he was not meant for the almost rabid, unconditional protectiveness of a servant, but this other kind, this warm, tender, loving protectiveness suited him just fine.

He knows that some day he won't be able to provide for them. Some day he will be too stiff to move, too broken. Once, that would have been enough for him to give up, to let himself pass on because he was no longer useful. But he knows better than that now, because even if he can't rise in the morning, even if he can't limp out of the barn to hunt, even if he can't raise his paws to strike a blow in their defense, there are other kinds of protection. There's more than one way to stand by Maelstrom's side or be part of Mackere's family or do right by her for Twister or teach Jaci's kits the ways of the world. There's more than one way to love them, and he cannot imagine cutting short his life prematurely so long as they are here to bind him to the earth, so long as the north star shines in the sky for his lantern eyes to reflect.


	57. 56 Stay With Me

**56. Stay With Me**

When he lunges, it's from behind. One moment she's walking along, feeling the springy ferns underneath her paws, and the next she's on the ground, her nose being pushed into those same new leaves. She spits and hisses, wiggles out of his grasp without any trouble at all, and turns on him, ready to slash him to pieces.

But his eyes – like newly minted coins, so bright and golden – catch her off guard with their dancing, and she hesitates, and he laughs.

"Got you," he purrs. "You don't belong here, stranger. Who are ya?"

She doesn't answer right away, doesn't really know what to say. She doesn't much like her name – it's a tiny, plain thing, but then again, so is she – but it's all she has. "Clay," is her answer, and his grin widens.

"Ugly name," he says, as if he was commenting on the weather. "You're plenty cute, though, aincha? I'm Jagger, and we're going to be best friends."

She was lost at that very moment, had no hope of getting away from him and his damned dancing eyes, but she didn't know it then. She still thought she had a choice. So she sniffed at him, rolled her young eyes and shook her little head with the confidence any kit holds, the belief that their life can be whatever they want it to be.

"I'm not staying," she says, because she's never really stayed anywhere in her five moons of life, doesn't really think she knows how, and again he laughs.

"You are," he says. "You can go ahead and leave, but you'll be coming back, and I'll be waiting. And you'll stay with me then, and we'll be friends forever, and we'll take over the whole forest, just you wait and see."

He's a prophet, really, this little tom with stars in his eyes, but she doesn't yet know the scope of his ambition. So she scoffs and turns up her nose and brushes the dirt from her pelt and strides off, not knowing that her path leads right back to him.

She stays away for four days, but can't get him out of her mind, and eventually she does come back to that little fern-patch, and he's waiting there just like he promised, a wide grin splitting the face that will someday be handsome.

"Hey, Clay," he says, and giggles as though he's made the cleverest joke imaginable. "I knew you'd be back."

"I'm not staying," she mews, but it's a lie, of course. They both know that, and he giggles again, before flicking his tail. And he leads her home to their little den and shows her the spot for her nest - she has to collect it herself, but he's at least kind enough to show her where to get the moss – and he explains her duties. She's to hunt for him, and he'll do all the protecting and planning and attracting of followers, and the two of them will rule the forest together as the best of friends, forever and ever.

It's so simple, and yet so mad, and she can't help but be a bit dazzled by her new partner, if what they have could be called a partnership at all.

It's true, though, every word of it. They grow and learn, they inspect every leaf and roll over every stone and they become stronger and spar with each other every day. Muscles develop under their pelts, and they begin looking like adults, and sounding like them too; his voice deepens, becomes honey to the ears. Hers still squeaks like a kit's, and she hates it, but knows it won't ever change, and perhaps that's okay, because he's amazing enough for the both of them. He's confident and has that flashing smile and those _eyes _that she can't even begin to describe.

She has her own confidence too, eventually, but it's not the real kind. It's the sort that hides behind bared fangs and hostile glares, thorn-sharp words backed up by claws. It's the most cowardly sort of confidence, and she knows it, but any other kind pales in comparison to his.

It doesn't take long for other cats to be drawn to them, and he chases after them all, all those pretty faces and sleek pelts and lithe forms. They never hold his attention for long, because they can't stay away from him any more than she can, and once he has them in his grasp, he tires of them. He weaves a trail of broken hearts and barely notices, even when half of his followers are clearly love-sick and pining after him. And she watches with resignation, because she knows she'll never capture his attention like that, whether she would want to or not.

Things are fine, that's what she tells herself. She doesn't envy them, those broken-hearted cats, those he's used and thrown away with his usual carelessness. There's no malice in him; he just doesn't know better. He's a selfish thing, their fearless leader, a kit trapped in a budding adult's body. Everything is laid bare to him, all the possibilities scattered before his paws without any real effort. He's blessed for things to come easily to him. He bit off more than he could chew when he was nothing more than a scrap, and his mind was still racing to keep up with his hungry jaws. She's happy with her place as his second in command, his so-called best friend, his constant supporter. There's nothing she likes better than watching him hunt she-cats down and then rip their hearts apart without batting an eyelash. That's the story she tells herself. But sometimes before she's about to fall asleep, she imagines him springing on her in those ferns, and wishes that it would happen again.

"Clay," he greets her one morning with his usual breezy affection, "we need to patrol."

"Of course," she replies with her usual acidic sneer. "We can't leave the borders undefended. Do you think me a fool?"

"No, you silly thing," he purrs, and then glances away from her for a moment to trace a silver she-cat's tabby stripes as she passes the two of them. The usual hungry gleam is in his eyes, and Clay's heart clenches despite herself. "Go on," he says, and he's not really looking anymore, so she takes her leave, padding into the thick forest with her head down and her ears pinned against her head.

She lashes her tail and wonders what it's like to be pretty as she strides through the leaf-litter, wishing for longer legs and a slenderer face until she hears a rustle in the undergrowth. She tenses then, and a growl escapes her as her claws unsheathe.

"Who's there?" she demands. "Show yourself."

And he does, the dark stranger. He slips out from underneath a bush looking as though he came from the shadows themselves. His eyes are golden, that's the first thing she notices, but they're cold and detached, not glowing like twin suns, not like Jagger's.

"Hello," he says, and his voice has a rasp to it, very different from Jagger's honey. "You're out all on your own, aren't you? That doesn't seem wise, for a she-cat."

"I do just fine by myself," she hisses, irritated as always when toms pick on her size, although it was usually a slight rather than a concern for her safety.

"I can see that," the stranger says, and tilts his head to the side, icy eyes flicking over her. "But you're not really by yourself, are you. I can smell it now. You're part of that tom's brood, aren't you? The young one, the upstart, the one who thinks he's everything."

She bristles even further at that – no one is going to slight Jagger, not on her watch. "You'd better watch your mouth."

To her surprise, the stranger chuckles. "You can do better than him, my dear. We both know that. So, why don't you?"

She can't answer that, not without revealing the truth – the truth that Jagger's wanted her more than anyone else ever has, the truth that even his dismissiveness is better than she's been treated in the past, the truth that she can't imagine life without him anymore, couldn't escape him ever since that first meeting – so she clenches her jaw and glares at him. "You've got five seconds before I run you off."

He doesn't move, though, and she doesn't understand that, for her and Jagger's reputation precedes itself these days, and few cats are stupid enough to cross them. To her surprise, he laughs, and while it carries none of Jagger's merriment, it still sends a strange tingle down her spine.

"My dear," he says, and she stiffens, for she's never been called that either, "I think we both know what is going to happen now, don't we? You want an escape. You want to run. And I am here, for you to run to. I'm not him, I never will be, but I can show you plenty of things that he cannot. I can give you what you deserve."

Her breath catches for a brief moment, and she gives a half-glance over her shoulder, thinking of Jagger. He doesn't know how she feels, can't see behind her growls and stony face. She's been good at hiding that part of herself, very good, and perhaps that was part of the problem…but she couldn't tell him, no, because she's always been the unattainable one, the only nut he couldn't crack even if he wanted to, and if he found out that she'd been his all along, he would only laugh. He would throw it in her face and snicker at her and remind her how ugly her name was, and that would be that. No, she had to keep it to herself, now and forever.

But this other tom is here. This other tom is willing and open and wants to give her a chance without hurting her, and she finds herself desperate for that.

"Okay," she whispers, and he leads her to a small den, and they are joined together and it's not him she imagines as she leans into his dark fur but Jagger's, and it is Jagger who dances behind her eyes as they finally lay with each other, panting, the deed finished. And she rises to go when it's over, but he places a paw on her tail and gives her his strange, cold smile.

"Stay with me," he says. There is no order running underneath his words, no expectation of compliance, and that is enough to make her halt, because it's a request, and she hasn't heard an honest request in moons. So stay she does, the whole night through, and for the first time that she can remember, she feels loved.

In the morning she goes back home. Jagger is not there when she gets back, and neither is the silver tabby, and she knows that he was probably busy all night too, much too busy to notice her absence. So she slips into her den and curls into a ball and tries to forget her moment of weakness. She is Jagger's shadow, the defender of their territory, and she was supposed to run off intruders, not follow them back to their dens.

She doesn't wake up when he pads into her den, doesn't see the fire igniting in his eyes as he smells the other tom on her, doesn't hear his hasty retreat. In fact, she doesn't wake up for hours, and by the time she does, it is too late. When she finally rises to her paws and pads out of her den, she is greeted by a rush of activity and the stench of blood, and she sees Jagger's twisted, still body. And this time it is she who is calling for him to stay with her, even though he's far beyond hearing her now, as he's carried off into his den, hanging by a thread.

. . .

He had fallen the moment he'd seen her, the little tabby she-cat lost in the woods. So he had done what all smitten toms do, he had thrown himself at her and hoped she would understand. But she didn't, and he laughed at her and decided they would be best friends instead, and they could worry about love later. He told her as much – or part of it, at least – and although she sneered at him, he knew she was coming back. And when she did, he was ready and overjoyed, but she didn't quite seem to know the joy was for her. She wasn't used to being wanted, he could see that, but he could be patient, in some things if not others.

So he waited, and he waited, but she never returned his grins or the gleams in his eyes. She never seemed to hear the compliments he gave her or the slight hints he would toss her way, and over a time, such things finally fell away. They grew up, the both of them, and as his feelings grew, he found it far easier to hide in other cats, to pick up the she-cats far more willing. They were nothing but toys, simple things he could take pleasure in and forget how Clay's gaze was able to pierce him so thoroughly, how she could see straight through him always. She had to know how he felt, she _had _to with eyes as sharp as hers, but she never showed any sign of it, and finally he admitted to himself that she just didn't love him. She wasn't the type to be foolish, to fall for breezy toms like him. She'd find herself a mate someday, a strong, dependable cat who would treat her like a princess, and she'd forget all about the name Jagger. And that was okay, if it would make her happy.

But he couldn't help but hope, in his heart of hearts, that one day he'd wake up and find her smiling at him.

"Clay," he says to her one morning, his voice caressing her name despite his best efforts to the contrary, "we need to patrol."

She, as always, misses the importance of the 'we.' She, as always, sneers at him, crushing his hopes anew.

"Of course," she says, as though he is an imbecile. "We can't leave the borders undefended. Do you think me a fool?"

"No, you silly thing," he answers, hiding his disappointment behind his light tone and allowing his gaze to stray. It falls on a silver tabby, a pretty thing – her name is Melody, he thinks, or perhaps Harmony, something light and vapid – and she returns his glance with a small smile. He imagines that smile on Clay's face instead, imagines her drawing closer to him and nuzzling his ear. "Go on," he murmurs, more to himself than anyone, but Clay turns away from him and stalks off, and by the time he looks back to her, it's too late. She's run off, as she always does, leaving him in the dust. Sometimes he wonders if she regrets coming back to their fern-patch, if she wishes she could be somewhere else. He would let her go, but he doesn't dare say so, for fear she would actually leave him. Where would he be, without his closest friend, his dearest follower, his shadow? The others pale in comparison to her, but she can't see it, not for the life of her, and he wishes he could open her eyes.

But he can't, that much is clear, and he gave up on trying moons ago. She still looks at him as though he's a kit, a reckless young thing to be carefully watched and monitored, not a cat to look up to. They share the same ambition, but she has always been more cautious than him, more willing to sit and wait and plan. Truly, she might have even made a better leader than he, if her first resort was not to unsheathe her claws. When it came to her own ambition, she always had the strength to hold back, but when it came to protecting their little group, she was a tempest, something that could neither be held back nor controlled. He should have known that from day one, but like a foolish thing, he thought he could tame her. He doesn't have the strength of character for it, and perhaps they both know that by now.

So he diverts himself, spends his day talking to the silver tabby – her name's Tune, of course, how stupid of him not to have known – and luring her in, twisting her around his paw as he always did to distract himself, not really understanding that he is crushing her heart in the same way that Clay crushes his. He fills her ears with compliments and sweet nothings, makes her twitter and sigh with longing, for he has more charm than he knows what to do with. And they pad off into the forest together, curl up in one of his favorite old dens, and when she runs her tongue over his pelt he enjoys it, purrs softly and continues to murmur to her, even though she is not the one he would prefer to hold.

They fritter the whole night away in the same manner, and he wakes up feeling much better in the morning – refreshed, revitalized. That's how it always is with these little jaunts, that's why he needs them, to keep himself moving forward even though sometimes he feels as though he will never really get anywhere. They control most of the forest, for there is little competition, but new enemies pop up every day, and some are more dangerous than others. So he thinks of Clay, out there all on her own, and he worries a bit even though he knows she's fiercer than he ever could be, and can take care of himself just fine.

He excuses himself with cool politeness and leaves the silver tabby in the den, bored of her already as he pads back to his camp. He looks for Clay, even though he knows she probably hasn't thought of him at all since she left to patrol on her own – she was always on her own. He doesn't find her, so he goes to check her den – they used to have the same den, way back when, but as soon as they'd established a real camp she'd decided to get her own, just to put more distance between them – just to make sure she got back after all and is alright, and that's when he scents the tom lingering on her fur. It's not one of their scents, it's the scent of a stranger, and that's enough to send fire blazing over his pelt. A stranger he can't handle, a stranger he can't imagine, because a stranger isn't strong or stable or going to be there for Clay when she needs him. A stranger might brush his pelt with hers just once, and then leave forever, and Clay deserved far better than that.

So he leaves the den and calls them together, the few followers that are in camp instead of out on patrol in their sweeping forest, and they charge out together to hunt down the unknown stranger, although they don't know why. He leads them, tail held high like a beacon, fury still humming through his veins as he imagines the elusive stranger, imagines him pulling Clay tightly against his side and refusing to let her go. He knows it didn't happen that way, knows Clay is far too strong for such things, but it is the only way he can let himself think of it without feeling as though his chest has been crushed, because she had finally chosen someone to give herself to, and it had not been him.

They follow the stranger's scent all the way to his camp, and that's when things go wrong, because the stranger is not a stranger at all. He's a leader of a band of rogues all his own, a group that has been lurking unseen in the forest for moons, and there are many of them, far too many. They fight as hard as they can, all of Jagger's little followers, and he fights hardest of all, but by the time he finally faces the dark stranger, he's exhausted, while the other tom has barely begun.

It's over in minutes, their confrontation, as the stranger weaves and twists and evades his blows with ease. Clay could have beaten him, but he is not Clay, and they are both aware of it as his legs give out from under him.

"Such a delightful thing, your lackey," the stranger hisses, his voice like frost on a windowpane. "I do hope to see her again, once I've taken care of _you._"

Rage courses through him, and he struggles to rise but cannot, and everything is fuzzy and blurry and all he can see is the stranger's glowing golden eyes. He knows he has lost, knows he had lost from the very beginning when Clay first turned away from him, and he fades into blackness with the stranger's harsh laughter ringing in his ears, not expecting to ever wake up.

But some part of him hangs on as he floats on the inky darkness, as he's carried back to their camp and jostled by many paws, because somewhere in the back of his mind, he can hear her calling out for him. And that's enough for him to stay.

**AN: This piece is really weird**

**Not my usual stuff at all**

**Does anyone even remember who Clay is at this point, like seriously**

**She hasn't been mentioned in over three years, like at all, but then she rears her ugly/lovely head again and I really have no idea how she moved from this point to how we saw her in the story she appeared in, but somehow she did. Dear Lord. There's something wrong with my brain.**

**I wrote a scene that comes directly after this, but it didn't fit into this piece. I want to bridge the gap between that scene and the Clay we knew, so I'll probably write another one-shot about them eventually. Why does this happen, brain, whyyy**


	58. 57 Mint

**AN: I wrote the first bit of this chapter before I even wrote Stay With Me. It was the inspiration for that, I guess, even though the events are out of order…but I couldn't leave it as a little snippet. There's something wrong with me when it comes to these two. :/**

**57. Mint**

He lifts his head, blinks at her groggily, and she doesn't know whether to rake her claws down his muzzle or to draw him close and never let him go.

"You're a damned fool," she growls down at him, the tom who thought he had everything laid out, everything planned, the tom who thought he _was _everything, but in the end turned out to be nothing.

"You're okay," are the first words out of his mouth, and with that her anger dies, puffing into smoke with the gleam of relief in his eyes.

"Of course I am," she snaps. "I wasn't the one who plunged head-long into a battle I couldn't win, now was I?"

"Guess you weren't," he grunts, then closes his eyes, letting out a low groan. "Ah, I ache."

"You're alive. Be grateful for that," is her thorny reply, and his face twitches into something akin to a smile.

"Guess I should be. Still, though…." He frowns then. "Something's wrong. Something's off."

She doesn't have the heart to tell him. She can't even look at his face – he'd been handsome once, but never again now – and instead glances away.

"Hey," he says, a touch of worry in his voice. "Hey. What's the matter? What is it, what happened?"

"They got you good, Jagger," is all she can think to say. He reaches up with one paw, feels the twisted shape to his muzzle, the cobwebs strewn over his forehead and where his ears should be – there's only shreds now, scraps of fur. He goes on, feeling the long scar running down the side of his face all the way to his throat. For the first time, he seems conscious of the rasp his voice has taken on, the dull tug in his throat with each word, and she winces as she sees the realization in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, and a tremor finally runs through her pelt, betraying her. "We did everything we could, we saved your life, but…well, you can see for yourself later, when you're stronger."

He'd always prided himself on his looks, ever since they were kits. He'd always had that swagger, that gleam in his eyes, and as much as it had always infuriated her – how he'd chased those she-cats, how he had danced around them, knowing they'd eventually give into him – she found herself hoping it would come back, just once more.

"Ah," is all he says, and then again, "ah."

He runs his paw over his face again, as if checking that it's all real, before he closes his eyes a moment, and she thanks the stars that he at least still has those.

"I'm sorry," she says again, and his eyes open.

"Nothing for you to be sorry about," he grunts, and she feels a prickle of worry, for taking responsibility for his foolishness is not like him at all. "Wasn't you that got me into that mess. You always stood by me through thick and thin, and I'm glad of that."

_But I wasn't there when it mattered, _is all she can think, even though there is no anger in his eyes, no accusations hiding on his tongue.

She wants to be furious, wants to blame him for everything, wants to agree that it was his own recklessness that nearly got him killed, but he doesn't know everything, and there are some things she can't tell him, not without crushing what they have. She feels it again, that longing to pull him close to her and confess everything, the infatuation she's held for moons and repressed so strongly. Before it had been because she knew what it would do to him, knew it would give him a swollen head the likes of which no one had ever seen, knew that he might even use it to hurt her – that was just how he was. But now it was because if she told him that, she'd tell him everything else, and he would hate her. He would turn her away, tear up their moons of friendship and loyalty and falling back on one another, and it would be as though they had never known each other at all.

Perhaps it was what they both deserved, but she couldn't face it, not yet.

A sigh escapes him despite his best efforts, and his eyes close again. "I ache," he repeats, his voice taking on the plaintive tone of a kit. "Gods, I ache."

"Nothing I can do about that," she says. "You'll have to tough it out, like you always do." _And then things will be normal again, _is the unspoken sentence hanging in the air, but it's a lie she doesn't dare voice.

"Come here," he says, his bandaged tail flicking with the feebleness of an elder. She doesn't move, surprised, and his tail repeats the motion. "Please."

She isn't sure he's ever said please in his life. She didn't think he knew how, and that sends a ripple of fear running through her, for him not asking – he _demanded, _never requested - for things was an unspoken rule, something that had always held true ever since they'd first met. So she obeys, edging closer and closer, waiting for him to stop her. But he doesn't, and eventually their pelts are touching, and it's as though a current of electricity is running through their fur, and it 's almost painful but she can't pull away.

"Stay," he murmurs, voice edged with weariness, and she knows he's about to fade away again.

"Of course." Her eyes trace his scarred face, and she feels it again, that fear, because who is he really, without his charm and good looks and followers? And who is she, if not his shadow? It isn't right for them to be close like this, for them to be tucked up so closely to one another, but she finds she wants it more than anything. And she knows he doesn't feel the same – he's not capable of love, never has been, never will be, not so long as there are prettier faces to chase – but in the back of her mind she is able to pretend otherwise, as their hearts beat in unity.

"You're a damned fool," she whispers again, but this time it's to herself, as his breathing eases and he slips away.

. . .

She's gone when he wakes up. That's the first thing he's aware of as he comes around, as the world's fuzziness sharpens into images he's familiar with. She is gone, just like always.

"Why don't you ever stay?" he whispers, but of course there is no one there to hear, no one but him.

Other cats come to check on him then – to bind his wounds and keep him comfortable. He smiles at them, even jokes a bit, but his every attempt falls flat. His voice is strange, alien to him; it hurts to talk, as every flutter of his throat sends new pain flooding through him, and nothing sounds right to him without his ears standing as they should.

When his caretakers look down at him, it is with pity, and that shakes him to the core. Attraction is expected, admiration desired, but pity? He has never had a need for pity, not with all his looks and charm and cleverness, but that is all he sees reflected back at him now.

And still Clay doesn't come back. Not when he's awake, at least. He doesn't know it, but when he's asleep – when the moon hangs over him, sending soft light filtering into the den that is slowly becoming his world – she hovers in the entrance, staring down at him with her unreadable eyes, face twisted in some strange mixture of longing and anger and guilt. And, always, she leaves before he wakes.

Eventually they tell him he's well enough to move around again, well enough to leave his little world, but for the first time that he can remember, he's afraid – afraid of what his followers will think, afraid that Clay is already gone and never coming back, afraid that everything will be different. And his fears are realized, almost all of them, as he steps out of his den and squints in the sunlight and sees the pity flickering in their eyes, all of their eyes. All but Clay's. She's as unreadable as ever, an enigma. He feels as though he's drowning in a sea of pity, and her blank expression is all he has to cling to.

He's lost a few teeth, and as he finds out, it's very hard to stop the spaces left behind from getting infected. He chews marigold almost constantly at first, but the taste drives him mad, and it doesn't seem to do any good. There's nothing he can do about the infection, but it just makes him more unwilling to talk, more unwilling to reach out and be the cat that he was. He takes to chewing mint leaves to try and hide the scent, and hides in his den rather than face the cats that had once padded after him with such lovesickness. He can't face them, not like this, practically struck dumb.

Bit by bit, they turn away from him, all of them. Bit by bit, they turn to Clay, looking to her for their guidance and direction. To her credit, she leads them well. She has never wanted to be a leader, not like this – she always left it to him – but she manages just fine. She doesn't have his charisma, and the she-cats don't love her, but she is strong and fierce and protective, and that is enough.

And still she hardly speaks to him at all. She sends others in her place to report to him and gather his orders, but it's more a courtesy than anything, for as he is slowly realizing, he has no power at all, not any more. His kingdom has slipped out of his paws, lost in a pathetic attempt to defend her honor – but no one knows that, no one but him, because he never told them why they were going after the dark stranger, and never told her just what he had scented on her fur that morning – and there's no way for him to get it back, not now.

Finally he can bear it no longer. Finally he cannot keep up the charade, cannot stand to act as though he is still the leader when it is quite clear he is old news. Finally he cannot stand her absence. So he confronts her one night, when she's coming back from a patrol and is tired and cross and as tight-lipped as ever.

"Clay," he says, the rasping painful in his throat, the mint's scent floating out with each word – his den has become steeped with the stuff, it seems, but he can't help it – and she tries to dodge around him, but can't. "Clay."

"I don't want to talk about it," she says, and he thinks she means that night they spent together, when he had said "Please," and gotten her to stay just that once, the only time she had ever cut him any slack.

"We have to," he says then, and the feelings are bubbling at the back of his throat, all the wistfulness and love he's held back for so long threatening to break through. "Listen, just please listen, just for a moment. I can't do this, can't keep pretending anymore. I love you, Clay, I love—"

Her face twists with disbelief then, hurt and anger clashing with one another like storm clouds, and he sees he has made some mistake, sees she was thinking of something else entirely.

"You don't own me," she hisses, her words raking his ruined ears like claws. "Yes, I made a mistake, but it was my own, and I…I'd do it again, you understand? You've pinned me here, kept me as your little prisoner and made me watch as you dance those _floozies _right under my nose, tug at their strings however you please before you cut them down and leave them. What I did was no better, but certainly no worse, and I won't have you lecture me, or throw that _word _in my face. You don't love me, and we both know it. You can't. You aren't capable of it. Don't try to pretend otherwise."

He takes a step back, reeling as he realizes she is talking about the stranger, realizes that it had been a voluntary union all along, that the lie he had built up was just that, an illusion, a falsehood. And he had charged after it, had gotten his ears torn off and his face scarred and throat half-slashed for nothing.

And she didn't love him after all.

"I…." But there are no words that come to him this time. Before they always surged forwards, flowing out of him like honey, but now when he reaches for them, all he touches is an inky void. So he turns away like a coward, flees back into his den, and in the back of his mind he realizes that somewhere along the way, he's become the shadow. But Clay is not like him, she doesn't _need _a shadow. She can stand right on her own, and he knows she would be happier for it.

So in the dead of night, he slips away, because no one there needs him any more, no one can look at him without a trace of pity – or pain. And the last thing he would ever want to do is hurt her more than he already has.

. . .

She presses her nose into her paws, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. She tries to force it out of her mind, his agonized expression, the way sincerity tugged so strongly in his voice – _I love you, Clay, _– because it can't be true. She knows that all too well, knows he has probably told dozens of she-cats the same thing, probably with that same note of conviction. He's a charmer, that's all. He always has been, and always will be, even with his new setbacks, even with his rasping voice and scarred face and that damned mint he is always chewing now.

And yet, and yet, she still finds herself wanting to believe, still feels her heart flutter as she imagines it again – _I love you, Clay_ – because she wants it to be true so badly.

And finally, finally, against her better judgment she rises to her paws and moves towards his den. She runs through a few lines in her head, a few explanations – does he even know, truly, what had gone on between her and that stranger? Does he have any idea who he was fighting against? – but nothing satisfies her, and when she does reach the entrance to the den, she hesitates. Fear runs through her – icy, sharp fear, like needles pricking through her pelt – and her legs tremble, but that only gives her some sort of steely determination, because she is not the sort given to fear. She has never allowed such things to stop her before, and she won't let them stop her now.

She doesn't know if what he said is true, but she wants to believe, wants to give herself away, wants to finally stop being alone. She's been alone all her life, and isn't quite sure she knows how to change, but she is willing to try, for him if no one else.

At her core, she's more tired than she has ever been. The others look to her as a leader now. They expect her to have all the answers, all the strategies, all the battle plans, and she has _nothing, _but they look to her anyway. For the first time she is able to see what it must have been like for him to have so many dependent upon him, and for the first time she sees why he might have needed his carnal distractions. Perhaps it's his turn to become one of them.

The scent of mint rushes over her as she finally does it, finally forces herself to duck into his den. But that is all that greets her, in the silence of the night. She blinks once, twice, three times, and still reality does not change. He is gone.

Fear strikes her again, but it is a different sort this time, and she moves out of the den with haste, looking around wildly. She rushes from den to den, thinking he might just be hiding – a stupid thought, but in her panic it is all she can manage – but he is not in any of them. Finally she leaves their camp, following the increasingly-faint scent of mint as far as she can, but eventually even it gives way. It as though he has disappeared, as though the forest has swallowed him whole, as though he was nothing but a shadow all along.

She knows he isn't coming back. She knows it's her fault, knows she finally pushed him too far, knows she has finally succeeded in becoming alone, the thing she thought she wanted more than anything. Despair seeps into her like a black river, but she can't shatter, not when they are still waiting for her to return and explain everything and make things right, because she's the only leader they have now.

"I love you, Jagger," she whispers to the empty, mint-tinged air, and then turns away.

She composes herself, ices herself over, and goes back to camp. She ignores the stares, the questions, only saying, "He's gone," in a voice full of certainty and authority. And they accept that, because he's become nothing to them – he _is _nothing, without his charisma and looks and cleverness – and in the back of her mind she realizes that in a few moons, they will hardly remember him at all – him, the cat who build this kingdom in the forest from nothing, the one who kept watch over them for so long. Him, their fallen king. Him, the one who had lost everything fighting her battle for her.

She manages to keep up the icy shell until she pads back into his den, and the scent of mint – the scent that has become synonymous with _him _the past few moons – rushes over her again. And then she splinters and cracks and breaks, collapses in his nest and presses it to her nose as though she can find his scent in it. But there's nothing, nothing but that damned cloud of mint hanging over her head and reminding her of everything that had been lost, of the cat she had known, of the tom in the ferns with the dancing eyes, of the chance she had been too afraid to take, of the chance she will never have again.

**AN: Clay is from Tigerstar's Redemption, for those of you wondering! She was the rogue who allied with Streamstar for a brief time, and then left during the battle. Her background was never really explained (what lazy writing :P), but she finally crawled back into my brain, haha.**


	59. 58 Rescue

**AN: This takes place in the Dark Forest, so the italics are kinda reversed!**

**For those of you who asked, there will be another Clay piece, but it's somewhere in the late 60's.**

**58. Rescue**

"Help. Help," she called, her voice unenthusiastic and flat. "Oh, help me, someone. Help." She yawned, pink tongue curling in on itself as she waited for her hero to appear.

Appear he did in a remarkable fashion, bursting through the ferns growing just behind the nursery with a yowl. He skidded towards her, throwing up a clump of leaves in his haste.

"Fear not, lovely maiden!" he squeaked. "It is I, Eaglekit, here to rescue you! Where are your captors?"

She gave a bored flick of her tail to an unassuming stick. The gray kit immediately pounced on it, yowling and scratching at it with great gusto. She only watched him struggle, before letting gout a much louder sigh and rolling her eyes.

Eaglekit paused in his gnawing to cock a glance at her, brow furrowing. "What's wrong, Nettlekit?"

"It's _boring _being rescued all the time," she huffed. "I don't want to just sit here and let you have all the fun. I don't _want _to be the damsel in distress."

Eaglekit blinked at her for a moment, before suddenly flipping onto his back, the stick clutched between his paws. "Help! Help, Nettlekit! It's going for my throat! You're my only hope!"

With a grin, she lunged forward, paws oustretched to help her best friend—

_Nettlefrost was jerked out of her thoughts as a powerful shoulder bumped her. She turned with a hiss, only to see that Swiftshade was already dropping back behind her again, ears lowered._

"_My apologies," he said quietly. "I did not mean to run into you. You were just moving a bit erratically—"_

"_It's fine," she snapped, looking away from him, her own ears lowering, more at herself than the blue-and-white tom. It was not like her to get lost in her memories, at least not anymore. That was something she thought she had conquered in death, and to have them rising up again was a little disconcerting._

_Not only that, but it had been a very long time since she had thought of Eagletalon with any fondness. Her memories of him had been tainted after his betrayal, streaked with anger and bitterness. It had been very easy to forget that there had been good times between the two of them once, silliness and lighthearted jokes and bright-eyed ambition. But that had all been replaced by loathing and fury and snarls many moons ago._

_She shook herself, trying to collect her thoughts once more. _It's that fool apprentice's fault. Sootpaw. She made me conjure all that up to satisfy her own curiosity, to placate her conscience, not thinking about how much it _hurts _to remember everything we've done wrong, every misstep we've ever made….

"_Are you alright?" came Swiftshade's voice from behind her, and again she rounded on him, eyes glittering with anger – as if he had any right to check up on her, as if he had any right to _care – _only to falter as she saw the hitch in his step, a reminder of how he had stepped in on her behalf when they had been attacked by the cats that had been attracted by Sootpaw's glow._

I didn't ask for him to do that either, _she thought, furious with herself. _I didn't ask to be rescued. I didn't need it, either. He was just in the way. It's his fault he got hurt, the fool.

_But she didn't say anything further, only stalked on with her bristling fur, and when they settled down to rest – not to sleep, for they were incapable of that here, only to let their weary limbs relax – she allowed herself to think of Eagletalon again._

"We could die if we do this," he whispered to her as they crept along together. The two apprentices accompanying them – from ShadowClan, as absurd as that was, but they needed all the help they could get – were right on their tails, but Eaglepaw was speaking softly enough that they couldn't hear. "You know that, right? There's so many rogues, and just the four of us."

"No one's gonna save those kits but us," she whispered back. "The Clans aren't acting quickly enough, and who knows what these rogues want them for. It has to be us, because no one else is going to help. You're brave enough, aren't you?"

His eyes took on a look of hard determination, and he nodded. "Let's go."

_Sometimes she wondered if there was any real truth to her memories anymore. They were colored by one's emotions, after all – or that was what Chillpaw always said, at least – and despite her iced-over heart, plenty of emotions raged within her almost constantly, vying for control. Wearing a mask of frost was easy enough – living it was something else. _

Were we ever really happy like that? _she couldn't help but wonder, thinking of Eaglepaw's glowing eyes. _Did we ever really trust each other? Or did I imagine everything, dreamed it up as a bed time story to help keep myself together? Was he ever really a cat worth being loved, or was I just that desperate to cling to him, even when things started going south?

_The last thought send another tide of memories rolling over her head, and she braced for them as best she could._

"Nettlepaw! Nettlepaw!" Eaglepaw's excited shouts tore her out of her peaceful dreams, and she yawned as she blinked blearily in the direction of the den's entrance. She and Robinflight had been training together well after dark; she had insisted on it, as it was the only way she could push herself to become a warrior early, and be that much closer to becoming deputy.

"What is it?" she grumbled, padding out of the den and squinting in the bright sunlight. Her green eyes found her friend without much trouble, but she immediately stiffened as she saw the golden stranger sitting next to him. "What is _that?_" she spat, taking an aggressive step forward, only to blink with confusion as Eaglepaw moved defensively in front of the other she-cat.

"This is Maple," he said. "I found her out in the forest."

"She reeks of Twolegs." Nettlepaw's lip curled with distaste.

"She's a kittypet, or she was." Eaglepaw looked pleased despite what he was saying, and Nettlepaw frowned, bemused.

"Then what's she doing _here?_" she demanded, and finally the golden she-cat spoke.

"I want to join the Clan," she murmured, voice soft and shy. "Eaglepaw told me all about it, and it sounds like it would be amazing, to be a warrior. My Twolegs can't take care of me anymore, and I don't have anywhere else to go—"

"That's why she's here. She's just looking for free prey," Nettlepaw growled, and her fur bristled. "She doesn't belong here. She'll just take up space and stuff her face. C'mon, Eaglepaw. Let's chase her out." She looked at him as she smiled, expecting to see a matching grin on his face. Instead, he gave her the smallest of glares, before turning to Maple.

"You just wait here, and I'll get our leader. You'll be able to join for sure, I know it," he said, before scampering away. Nettlepaw gaped after him, unable to believe he had been charmed by this meek, feeble creature.

But, then again, Eaglepaw had always been looking for someone to save. It seemed he had finally found his damsel in distress.

_That had been the beginning of the end, although neither of them had known it. Maple – who eventually became Maplepelt, a warrior who never stood out but always did her duty as best as she was able – had been vulnerable. Maple had been kind. Maple had been gentle. Maple had been everything that Nettlepaw was not, and in the end, she had proved too much for Eagletalon to resist._

_The memories still stung, even now, and Nettlefrost's ears lowered despite herself. She could not escape from them, not in this pitch-black darkness, where there was nothing to catch her eye or distract her ears. They ran around in circles in her mind as she retraced her steps a hundred times over, wondering what she had done wrong, wondering if there had been anything she could have done to set herself on the right path before ruin had befallen them._

It doesn't matter now, _she kept telling herself. _It's over, and there's nothing you can do about that _now, _other than make sure Sootpaw's sacrifice is not in vain. You must create a second legacy for yourself, one unmarred by false loves and other such distractions. You owe it to yourself.

_When they bedded down again, she found her mind was too busy to fall into the closest thing they could get to sleep. She tried her hardest, but as soon as she became certain it was not to be, she rose to her paws, moving away from the group to try and collect herself. She stepped carefully, for tumbling over a fallen log or into an unseen icy river could prove disastrous, if not outright fatal._

"_Nettlefrost?"_

_She wheeled around in an instant, for some reason thinking it was Eagletalon calling out to her, only to find Swiftshade's scent rising in her nose._

"_What do you want?" she snapped, voice as sharp as cracking ice. "Can't you amuse yourself instead of following me?"_

"_I only wanted to make sure you were alright." His voice was low and careful, but she could sense the pity in it, and imagined the same emotion reflected in his dull eyes. Without thinking, she lashed out, claws finding fur in the abyss. She heard him grunt, felt his heavy paws step back, and felt the briefest glimmer of satisfaction._

"_Leave me alone. I mean it," she said, turning away from him even though there was no way for him to tell. _

"_It's bothering you," he meowed behind her in a tone so soft it almost reminded her of little Maple. "What you and Sootpaw talked about, I mean."_

"_You have no idea what we talked about."_

"_I know your story."_

_It was true; they knew everything about each other, or close to it. The past was the Dark Forest's specialty, after all, and looking into it was not difficult, so long as you knew how._

"_Shut it," she growled. "Just because you have a soft spot for the little snot-nosed punk does not mean the rest of us do. I don't want to talk about it, and I am not going to. If you were smart, you'd keep your feelings to yourself. If anyone thinks you're going to be a liability during the ceremony, you'll be snuffed out before you can blink."_

"_I know. I won't be." He sighed softly. "I want a new life as much as the rest of you. I intend for it to be different…I intend to correct every mistake I made, to be the best warrior I can for whatever Clan I find myself in. I will ensure Sootpaw's life is not wasted…although I do feel guilt for it ending so soon. She's very young."_

"_And naïve, and foolish," Nettlefrost replied. "She should know better than to help cats like us. What else could she honestly expect, but to be betrayed? That's the way of the world."_

"_Perhaps." He was quiet for a long moment, and she twitched her ear with irritation, hoping he would go away._

"_You do not think what we are doing is wrong, though? Not even a little?" he asked finally._

"_Survival of the fittest," was her chilly reply. "Something would have happened to her eventually, as easily taken-in as she is. She's too soft for her own good."_

"_That may well be true…but you and I know the ceremony is darker than any punishment she would have incurred in life for her naivety. When we go through with this, her spirit will cease to exist. She will have no resting place, will have no existence at all. She will cease to be entirely. Can you truly go through with that without even the smallest flicker of remorse?"_

_She did not answer, but that was answer enough. She waited for him to push further, to go through with the you're-better-than-this speech, the you-aren't-truly-all-ice-after-all-and-you-knew it spiel, but to her surprise, he did not._

"_You remind me of my sister," he said instead, leaving her confused. "You two look very similar, but it's more than that. You both have the same commanding air, the same dignity. She knew exactly what she wanted and how to take it – and she was not afraid of ruining lives in the process."_

"_I know your story, too," she replied, but found herself waiting for whatever was coming next, curiosity getting the best of her. _

"_Of course. I just…I thought you should know, is all. She did many terrible things, during her life…but she repented, in the end, and that was enough to earn her a spot in StarClan."_

"_Do you think even repenting won't be enough for what we're going to do to her? Is that what you're trying to say?" she demanded, and she heard his paws shuffling against the ground._

"_No. I'm…I'm not sure what I'm trying to say, really. Only that you two are similar…but different, too."_

"_That's why you stepped in before, isn't it? When we were attacked by those other cats. I reminded you of her, and you thought you had to save my pelt." Irrational anger flickered in her again, and she took a moment to marvel at it; it had been a long time since she had been able to feel anything so strongly._

"_Yes. Forgive me, for I did not mean to insult you at the time. It just looked as though you needed help, and…."_

_She opened her mouth to snap at him for even considering the possibility, but the anger died before the words even left her tongue. Instead, she found herself saying, "It's alright. We all have someone we miss."_

_She regretted it as soon as she spoke, but to her surprise, Swiftshade let out a dry chuckle._

"_That does seem to be a recurring theme. Even Blight had Nightshade, as twisted as that was."_

_They both shared a shudder; the idea of helping Blight return to life did honestly disgust her. She knew who he was, knew what sorts of things he had done to she-cats. Part of her wanted to vow that when she returned to life she would hunt him down before he could hurt anyone, but of course that would be impossible, as far away as her Clans were from his._

"_Just for the record, I didn't need to be saved," she said, but there was no venom in her voice. "I can take care of myself."_

"_You're a very capable fighter," Swiftshade answered, his voice carefully neutral, and her fur bristled again._

"_What's that supposed to mean?"_

"_Nothing, only…you seem to take the position of one who does not need the assistance of others. And, yet, our very resurrection depends on Sootpaw's help – although she does not realize the extent of it. No cat can operate independently, without allies to fall back on."_

"_I have allies. We all have to be, whether we like it or not."_

"_But you will not fall back on us, will you? You will not ask for help if you need it, even in the thick of battle, when the stakes are highest. I don't mean to be rude, but if I had not stepped in, you could have been badly injured. There's no shame in it – they were attacking you from behind – but you cannot pretend it is not so just because you don't like the thought of being beholden to someone else."_

"_Is that what you want? You want me to _owe _you something?" she spat. "Is that what this conversation has been about? Not whatever qualms you feel about using Sootpaw, but the idea that I'm 'beholden' to you?"_

"_No, no." Swiftshade backpedaled as quickly as he could. "That is not what I meant. It's just…we all have ways of seeing ourselves, ways that are wrong. I felt like useless trash in life, like I was nothing more than a servant to be used – and because of that, many cats suffered. You saw yourself as the savior of your Clan, and you were willing to do whatever it took to protect that image, to keep yourself apart from them, as if by admitting weakness you would sink to that level. We had different views, you and I, but both were wrong, and both were – are – toxic. Sootpaw helped me recognize that, and I am willing to bet she attempted to help you, too, even though you would not take it."_

You could have been a great warrior, but now every cat that heard of your noble deeds will know the dark ones, too. You'll never be remembered by ThunderClan as a loyal deputy. You're one of their regrets.

_Sootpaw's words rang out in her mind, and she flinched at the memory. _

She mentioned Swiftshade, too, didn't she? She thought we could work together, find a way to balance our personalities somehow….

_She tilted her head in the tom's direction, something unfamiliar stirring inside of her. It was true that her self-image had been flawed. She had been consumed with ambition ever since she was a kit, had believed that true strength meant you never needed help, that you were always the one in control – and, of course, that had gotten her trapped in darkness, forever._

"_I don't need to be rescued," she growled, but the malice was forced, and they both knew it._

"_I never said you did, and I would hardly be the cat for the job," Swiftshade answered. "I only wish to suggest that, perhaps, it would be alright for you to accept help now and then. That's all."_

_She looked up, then, tilting her head towards the pitch sky, even though the movement was useless. She imagined it full of stars, tiny pinpricks of light that decided her fate and everyone else's. She couldn't quite manage the image, and finally her gaze dropped earthward again._

"_Maybe it would be," she said softly. Then, she rose to her paws. "We should get back. We'll need our rest."_

"_I agree," Swiftshade rumbled, and she heard him shuffle away, back towards the others. "Good night, Nettlefrost."_

_It was a somewhat ironic farewell, since they had nothing but night to look forward to for a good long while, but she knew he meant well. She would not have thought she would find that sort of earnestness here, of all places, but it was a welcome change._

_Nettlefrost remained still a moment longer, her head buzzing with the soft timbre of his voice and Sootpaw's wide, trusting eyes. She felt far less certain of her own choices than she had before. There was something about Sootpaw that felt sinful to break, that much was true; they were doing more than just killing her, after all. As Swiftshade had said, they would be essentially erasing her, just so they could reclaim their own lives. Alive, she would have considered it a necessary sacrifice for the greater good – but in death, she could see her faults for what they were, could see how she had failed her Clan so spectacularly, could see how she had fallen off the star-lit path. Who was to say she would not do so again, if presented the opportunity? Who was to say Sootpaw's sacrifice would be worth it – for her, and the others? Who was to say that the good Nettlefrost might do in a new life would outweigh Blight's almost-certain evil?_

It's too late now, _she thought, ears lowering. _It's far too late to change my mind or turn back – and even if I did, what would that accomplish? What would that fix? The ceremony can be done with six if it can be done with seven. Changing my mind would not do anything, not if I was alone. Swiftshade would not be brave enough to do so either, no matter how fond he might be of Sootpaw. We're set on this path now, and we have no choice but to go through with it…however dark it might be.

_Eventually, she too turned away, moving back towards the sharp scents of her companions, her temporary allies. She curled up with them, pressing her nose against her tail and clenching her eyes tightly, knowing even as she allowed herself to slip as close to sleeping as possible, she was inviting her memories to surge up once more._

"I love you," she whispered as she pressed herself into his fur in their fox den, their special place. It was one of the few times in her life that she meant every word.

"I love you too," he answered, pressing his nose between her ears, and she could not help but wonder if he meant it, too.


	60. 59 Dominant

**AN: This one's connected to that "Lightning" piece. Purely hypothetical, nothing more.**

**Also, friendly reminder that all reviewers are allowed their own opinions. Some people don't like reading long chapters, and that's fine. To each their own. :)**

**59. Dominant**

He's had it again, that terrible dream where he sees himself as they do: enormous, all flashing fangs and terrifying eyes, his gravel voice beating them down as powerfully as paws could.

It's not the first time he's had the dream, and it won't be the last, not so long as he continues his work. But it's not really_ his _work, it's Deacon's – or, that's what he tells himself.

Deacon knows he's had it as soon as he comes by, of course. He always knows; he's like a goddamned mind-reader. Sometimes he hates Deacon for that.

"Samuel," comes Deacon's too-warm voice, soft as daybreak so he does not disturb the kit sleeping only a few paces away. The kit twitches all the same, murmuring something in his sleep, but his eyes do not open, and that saves his life. Deacon never lets them see him, not before he is ready.

"What." Samuel's voice is flatter than he intends it to be, and he winces, as Deacon's eyes glint softly.

"Feeling a little under the weather again?" Deacon asks, his voice low and quiet – always with that damned _concern_ – and Samuel clenches his teeth.

"No," he growls in a voice almost like the rough one he uses with them, the little kit he breaks down into dust so Deacon can build them back up, and immediately he regrets it, for Deacon does not like being talked to with that voice, reminded of what the kits endure under Samuel's paws.

But Deacon only gives his bewitching smile and sits down, inviting Samuel to join him with a flick of his jet tail. And Samuel obliges, as he always does. What Deacon wants, Deacon gets – that's how it's always been, how it always will be.

"You had the dream again, didn't you? Am I working you too hard? We can shuffle the kit off to someone else, you know that."

Samuel's dark ears are pinned against his striped head, and he refuses to look up at the fat, round moon as Deacon does. He hates the feeling of moonlight lying on his pelt, illuminating him in ways he does not deserve, not with what he does in the daylight.

"I know. But I'm fine. I can handle it."

"I don't doubt your abilities…I only know you do not _want _to."

"I hate it." Samuel can't help that the words come out as a hiss, snakes coiling over his tongue. He's almost surprised Deacon can't see them writhing there, as nothing escapes his yellow eyes – but then again, perhaps he can. "I _hate _it, the way they look at me. There's always that hope at first, and then comes the fear, the terror, the hatred…." _And you swoop in like their guardian angel, and as their love for you grows, they hate me all the more for it._

"Are you sure you do not enjoy it, just a little?" Deacon's voice is still soft, thoughtful. "Cats completely at your mercy, clay in your paws to be molded, to do with as you please…that never excites you, never makes your pulse race with the possibilities laid out before you?"

Samuel shudders with disgust at the very thought. "Of course not."

Deacon smiles. "That is why I trust you, Samuel, more than anyone else. You do not take pleasure in the weakness of others, and that is how I know you will not go too far, will not push them until they break beyond repair, will not use your power for your own purposes. It is why I can rely on you above all others."

_That's a comfort, _Samuel thinks, almost rolling his eyes. _I'm only as much of a monster as you need me to be._

"Are you sure we're even getting anywhere with them?" he asks. "They say Solitaire lost it last week. Crumbled under the pressure of what's-his-face bossing him around, finally snapped. Took out a whole patrol of his Master's cats before he just disappeared. Is that true?"

Deacon only shrugs. He is the one who keeps up with them after they leave Samuel's care – if it can be called that –, the one who continues to give them hope and push them forward. Samuel is not even supposed to seek out news of them, to learn the names their Masters choose for them, but he cannot help himself. They are all there in his mind, every kit he ever trained, and he wants names to go with the faces – at least for those who live long enough to receive them.

"Tell me," Samuel growls, the aggressive tone entering his voice again, and Deacon's yellow eyes flick to his face.

"You really are in poor spirits tonight, aren't you?" he observed. "Of course we are making progress. We learn so much every time, don't you see? There is so much to be gained from watching them play off of one another, seeing how random chance dictates which pairings stand together and which fall apart…oh, it's fascinating. I wish you could appreciate it. And there are so few failures, nowadays. We are getting better and better, Samuel. Very soon our work will be perfect, and you can finally rest, never have to do any of this ever again. Won't that be nice?"

Samuel's eyes darken with wistfulness. "Yes." _'Nice' is the understatement of the century._

"What about him?" Deacon asks, nodding towards the sleeping kit, who again twitches in his sleep. "How is he doing? Is he adapting well?"

Samuel shook his head. "No. He cries out for his mother all the time…keeps trying to hide, too, darting off when he thinks I'm not looking. I keep borrowing Thorn's kit to try and spar with him, but he runs from him, too. The only time he's not terrified is when he's eating, and of course I can't let him do that undisturbed."

"You'll get to him, in time," Deacon meows. "I have complete faith in you. He'll be making his first kill in a few moons."

_Is that really something to be proud of? _Samuel can't help but wonder, stealing another glance towards Deacon. For the umpteenth time, he wonders again why he is doing this, why he is helping this dark tom with his sinister, twisted plans. Deacon is always claiming they are doing better, that they are getting closer to the perfect servant, but Samuel sees no improvement. He hears about failures at least once a week, and even if most are only rumors, some of them weren't. Some of them were real, were servants who could not handle their station in life and fell apart, one way or another – sometimes spectacularly, as Solitaire allegedly had, sometimes silently, simply vanishing into thin air like a plume of smoke – and each sent a fresh stab of guilt running through him.

That was all he ever felt these days, that guilt pounding at the back of his skull, knocking in his ears with every beat of his heart. He's been doing this for too long, smashed too many kits to pieces, and some part of him knows it will never really end, that Deacon is too goddamn curious about how cats work, what makes them tick, what makes them snap, what happens when you take everything away from them and twist them into as many knots as they can handle, to ever stop. Plenty of their servants work just fine, but they are never _perfect, _never will be, and perfection in all things is what Deacon strives for.

A few times, he's imagined quitting. He's thought of yelling in Deacon's face, of telling him everything he was doing was wrong, _evil, _intolerable. He's considered lunging at him, of slashing that damned compassion right off of his face. He's mused about grabbing whatever kit he is training at the moment, stealing them away in the middle of the night and just never coming back. Let Deacon find another right-hand man; he has plenty of others to look to, after all.

But Samuel is his favorite, his very best, the one he would never let go for anything. And Samuel knows he could never leave anyway, could never snap at the hand that's fed him, for Deacon has him hooked as thoroughly as he does the other servants. Deacon taught him how to channel the power and strength built into his body, the way to push anger through his yellow eyes and how to conjure up a voice of gravel that would intimidate cats bigger than himself because of the threats that rumbled just under it. Deacon is the only reason he is alive, and isn't that worth a few mewling kits, here and there?

He knows Deacon is watching him think, can probably hear the gears turning in his mind, but the dark tom says nothing, only looking up at the moon. Finally, Samuel follows his gaze, staring up at the pale white orb.

"He'll be making his first kill in a few moons," he echoes, hating himself all the while. "I promise. I'll wake him up a bit earlier this morning, maybe take off one of his ears if he tries running. Have to break him of that habit before we can get anywhere."

Deacon nods, and rewards him with a smile like the sun coming out after a storm. "That should be helpful, yes. The next moon is one of the most important, don't forget. I'll come and check in with you again at the half-moon, just to make sure things are going well. If he hasn't turned the corner by then, we'll discard him and move on. There is a she-cat who lives in one of the northern alleys who's kitting soon, and I intend to get at least one of them from her, so we can replace him if necessary."

His ears flatten as he thinks of burying the little kit, of tucking him into the ground beside so many others – the kit probably has no idea just how many bodies he is walking over every day, how many kits proved unfit for Deacon's imaginings.

_He'll never find out, _Samuel promises himself, claws gripping the ground. _He'll turn out fine. I'll push a bit harder, if I have to. I won't let him fail. _

He thinks of the rumors again, and looks down at Deacon, the questions still buzzing in the back of his mind.

Deacon looks up as though he senses them, and smiles again. "You needn't worry about Solitaire. Those were only rumors, as usual. You know how cats love to gossip. Solitaire is just fine, I assure you – I spoke to him only a few nights ago. He and his Master had a rocky beginning, but they are working together perfectly now."

Samuel stared down at him, searching those yellow eyes for any sign of deceit, but of course there was none there. Deacon's face never betrayed anything he didn't want it to, never showed any of the secrets swirling in his soul of pitch or twisting in his blackened mind. He was the sun, warm and kindly and twinkling, and most cats in the city would never see anything else.

_If they're getting along so perfectly, why can't we stop? Why can't they be the end of it? Why can't I finally rest?_

"Good," is all he says, and Deacon finally rises to his paws, flicking his tail over Samuel's shoulder in farewell.

"I'll see you soon," he purrs, not even looking towards the sleeping kit. "Don't push yourself too hard, now. I don't want you burning out on me, old friend. You would be far too difficult to replace." He chuckles, like it's a joke, and Samuel follows suit.

"Be safe," he rumbles, rising to his paws to move back to his uncomfortable nest. "Tell them hello from me."

They both laugh again without humor, for the last cat any of the servants would ever want to hear from again is Samuel. He is the creature who dominates their nightmares, the dark-furred tiger who tears through their dreams and poisons them, who reminds them that there is something to fear in the dead of night, who makes Deacon's light burn all the brighter with his own terrible presence. He is what haunts them, so they will fight to make Deacon proud.

"Goodnight, Samuel," Deacon says, before he and his twinkling eyes disappear into the night. Samuel waits a moment longer, listening for his receding pawsteps, before he moves back into his nest. He curls up, pressing his nose against his tail, closes his eyes and readies himself to fall into his own nightmares again. It is a fitting punishment, he thinks to himself, for in the morning, he will create them.


End file.
